Page 59 of Careless Whisper

“Why do you think it’s a man?” I asked as I was led into the gorgeous, welcoming home that I loved and knew I required as soon as I walked out of Harper Memorial. Because sometimes, you just needed to be wrapped in love, coddled, and cocooned, made to feel safe.

“Because men are simple, and nurses are underpaid.” She made it sound like somehow those two things were connected—not sure how.

“Miss Reggie.” Kurt, Grandpa’s butler, greeted me.

“Hi, Mister Kurt.” I’d always called him Mister since he called everyone Miss, Mister, Missus, and so on.

“Can you get her suitcase and have her room set up, Kurt?” G’Mum took my hand in hers and looked at my face and added, “I was going to say tea, but I think we need wine, Kurt.”

“Yes, Mrs. Lancaster.”

“Come on, Reggie, we’re going to the parlor where we’re going to plot our glorious revenge,” G’Mum announced. “Maybe some champagne, Kurt. I find the bubbles help me be creative.”

Kurt didn’t even bust a small smile. “Yes, Mrs. Lancaster,” he said in that prim British accent of his.

The Lancaster brownstone hadn’t changed in thirty years.

Bookcases lined nearly every wall, stuffed with art monographs, poetry collections, and old volumes with cracked spines and gold-embossed titles.

A full-size Steinway sat beneath the tall parlor windows, its black lacquered surface gleaming in the soft afternoon light. G’Mum and Mama both played it beautifully—sometimes together, sometimes separately—leaving behind echoes of Chopin, Debussy, and the occasional indulgent jazz standard.

The floors were original parquet, smoothed by time and footsteps, and softened in places by richly woven rugs collected from decades of travel.

Crystal decanters caught the light on a sideboard near the dining room, next to a silver tray that always had fresh-cut flowers.

Framed black-and-white photographs lined the hallway—portraits of ancestors with severe brows and enviable cheekbones.

And the smell of Earl Grey and citrus alwaysseemed to linger, like the brownstone itself had a memory.

It wasn’t just elegant.

It was lived in.

Layered.

A place that held its stories close.

“Stephen,” G’Mum called out for my grandfather. “Reggie is here, and we need to kill someone.”

I hurried behind my grandma as she dragged me along, just happy tobe—to let someone else take the reins of my life.

“I have been meaning to try out a new hitman,” Grandpa declared as he walked into the parlor. He opened his arms and I stepped in, soaking him in.

Dior Homme cologne, leather, and tobacco.

I sobbed, so horribly fatigued and sad with how my life had turned out. I’d tried so hard to live it well and meaningfully, but I’d failed time and again.

“There, there, now.” Grandpa stroked my hair and back. “Faye and I will kill whomever you need. There won’t even be a body, I promise.”

I chuckled even as I cried.

“Come on, sit down and tell us everything.”

Before I could say anything, Uncle Jason strolled in from the kitchen in gym clothes, holding a green juice.

“Hey, kid.” He kissed the top of my head. “I heard Dad say he wants to hire a hitman but it would be more cost-effective for me to beat up the dude who messedwith you.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary?—”

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