Laura Swanson

Chapter 7: Blue Hour

Laura didn’t like antiques. They carried too much memory and not enough mercy. They belonged to glass cases and soft voices, to men who talked about craft while forgetting what things were made to do. But the flintlock felt different in her hand—heavy, deliberate, honest about what it was. It didn’t pretend to be efficient. It didn’t offer forgiveness. One shot. One decision. The kind of weapon that asked you to mean it.

  The shop sat between a tailor that never opened on time and a travel agency that promised places no longer reachable. Its window was crowded with blades and relics—sabers with nicked edges, dueling pistols dulled by age, medals that had outlived the men who earned them. A bell rang when Laura stepped inside, thin and tired.

  The owner looked up from a ledger. Old, narrow-eyed, hands steady in a way that suggested practice rather than peace. He didn’t smile.

  “You looking,” he said, “or deciding?”

  “Deciding,” Laura answered.

  He nodded once and unlocked a case without asking her name. He laid the flintlock on a felt pad like it was something that deserved respect. The wood was dark and worn smooth by palms long gone. The barrel held the faint ghost of smoke.

  “You know how it works?” he asked.

  “I know how it ends,” Laura said.

  That earned her a look—not approval, not concern. Recognition. He showed her the ritual anyway. Powder measured slow. Ball seated firm. Ramrod pressed home with intention, not force. Flint set just so, angled to bite steel without shattering. He made her do it twice, watching her hands, correcting nothing.

  “One chance,” he said. “Then you’re holding history.”

  She paid cash. He wrapped the pistol in oilcloth and added a small tin of powder like an afterthought. When Laura stepped back onto the sidewalk, the city felt closer somehow, as if it had leaned in to listen.

  The Orpheum crouched at the edge of downtown, half its letters burned out, marquee buzzing like it resented the effort. Posters curled in their frames—films older than their audiences, promises of romance and ruin preserved in fading ink. It was the kind of place that survived because no one had bothered to kill it.

  Laura bought a ticket from a girl who looked too young to remember anything before the internet. The stub tore unevenly. The house lights were already dimming.

  Inside, the theatre smelled like dust and perfume that had learned how to linger. Velvet seats worn thin at the edges. Carpet patterned to hide stains it no longer bothered to deny. The audience was sparse: a couple holding hands like the dark might pry them apart, an old man asleep before the previews, a woman alone three rows back who didn’t eat her popcorn.

  Laura chose an aisle seat. Coat closed. The flintlock rested against her ribs, its weight a steady, inconvenient comfort.

  On screen, shadows argued with light. Rain fell that never reached the ground. A man waited too long to say what mattered. Laura watched the exits instead. Counted steps. Memorized reflections in brass rails and glossy armrests.

  Halfway through the second reel, she felt it—that tightening between the shoulders, the sense of being measured. She looked up toward the balcony. A silhouette stood just beyond the projector’s beam, edges blurred by drifting smoke. It wasn’t watching the film.

  When Laura stood, the silhouette moved.

  She didn’t rush. Rushing was how you missed things. She passed the framed photographs lining the lobby—stars smiling into futures that never arrived. The concession stand stood empty, glass reflecting a thinner version of herself. A door marked Employees Only hung ajar, as if inviting a mistake.

  Behind it, the theatre shed its costume. Bare bulbs. Narrow corridors. The smell of old rope, greasepaint, and wood soaked too long in damp. Laura’s footsteps softened as she moved, the building teaching her how.

  She passed a dressing room where a mirror had cracked down the middle and never been replaced. A wardrobe rack held costumes labeled with names that had lost their voices. The corridor opened into a small office cluttered with corkboards and filing cabinets that didn’t bother to lock anymore.

  That’s where she found it.

  A playbill—yellowed, curling at the edges—pinned among schedules and receipts. She turned it over and felt the faint resistance of tape. On the back, buried beneath ink and time, was the familiar name: Blue Hour Holdings. Smaller now. Quieter. But there.

  A note bled through the paper in hurried handwriting:

Rezoning approved after charity gala. Orpheum fundraiser. Names attached.

  Below it, a list. Donors. Consultants. Intermediaries. Caldwell’s name sat there like a smudge you couldn’t rub out. So did another—Eleanor Vance. The sums beside her name were generous enough to look philanthropic and precise enough to look intentional.

  Laura copied everything into her notebook, careful not to tear the paper. Dates aligned. Signatures repeated. The theatre hadn’t just hosted a fundraiser—it had laundered legitimacy. Applause covering the sound of doors opening where they shouldn’t.

  She heard it then. A breath that didn’t belong to her. Fabric shifting. The quiet panic of someone realizing they were seen.

  Laura turned, the flintlock already in her hand. The click echoed down the corridor like a gavel.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  The man froze. Stagehand clothes. Grease under the nails. The kind of face that learned to disappear when asked. His hands went up slowly, like they were negotiating.

  “I just work here,” he said.

  “Everyone does,” Laura replied. “Until they don’t.”

  “They told me to watch the place,” he blurted. “Said someone might come poking around.”

  “Who?” Laura asked.

  He hesitated. She didn’t move. The flintlock didn’t either.

  “The woman,” he said finally. “Vance. She paid cash. Said it was about protecting donors.”

  Laura lowered the pistol a fraction. Enough to breathe. Not enough to forget. “Tell her,” she said, “the show’s over.”

  He nodded too fast. She stepped past him and didn’t look back.

  Outside, the credits rolled to an audience that didn’t clap. The night met Laura like an old accomplice. Neon flickered. Tires hissed over wet pavement. Somewhere uptown, Mark Bell was chasing paper and doors that didn’t want to open.

  She walked, coat tight, mind already moving ahead. The theatre had given up its secret—not willingly, but completely. Blue Hour didn’t just buy buildings. It bought legitimacy. Charity galas. Applause. The permission to move quietly while everyone else watched the stage.

  Laura slipped the flintlock deeper into her coat. One shot. One decision. She didn’t expect to use it.

  But the city had a way of forcing hands.

  Under the lights, lies looked beautiful. In the dark, they learned how to beg.