In Chap­ter 66 of “We Solve Mur­ders,” Max High­field finds him­self infu­ri­at­ed while sit­ting alone in the Emi­rates First Class Lounge, feel­ing betrayed by his body­guard, Henk, who has failed to meet him as promised. Dis­pleased with hav­ing to fetch his own sal­ad, he grap­ples with his frus­tra­tion at being left unde­fend­ed in a posh set­ting. A ner­vous teenag­er approach­es, con­firm­ing that he is indeed Max High­field, prompt­ing Max to raise his sun­glass­es in a brusque acknowl­edg­ment. The boy express­es admi­ra­tion for Max’s film, “Titans of War,” to which Max retorts about being under­uti­lized in that role and laments the lack of recog­ni­tion for his work in “The Rose of Sara­so­ta.”

As the teen con­tin­ues to engage him, Max sus­pects how the boy, unlike­ly to afford a First Class tick­et, man­aged access to the lounge. Max is host­ing a cer­e­mo­ny asso­ci­at­ed with a Dia­mond Con­fer­ence and feels the pres­sure of com­e­dy rou­tines craft­ed by writ­ers Shaun and Chris­tine, which he must deliv­er. The teenager’s per­sis­tent admi­ra­tion cul­mi­nates in a request for a pho­to­graph. Though annoyed, Max oblig­es, notic­ing the boy’s trem­bling admi­ra­tion, which is some­what redeem­ing. As the boy excit­ed­ly returns to his par­ents, Max resumes his meal, frus­trat­ed by the inva­sion of pri­va­cy.

Max attempts to call Henk but is halt­ed by lounge staff, who inform him that calls are for­bid­den. Despite iden­ti­fy­ing him­self, the staff mem­ber remains unmoved. Angry that Henk does­n’t take his calls while con­sid­er­ing that Jeff Nolan would always answer, Max ques­tions his rela­tion­ship with Henk and his cur­rent vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty, giv­en recent threats he has received. These mes­sages com­pel him to recon­sid­er the neces­si­ty of a body­guard as he becomes aware of dark­er forces at play.

Reflect­ing on his film career, Max recalls his role in “The Rose of Sara­so­ta,” where he por­trayed a sick sol­dier. He had hoped the film would gar­ner him an Oscar, but its fail­ures weighed heavy on him, leav­ing him both furi­ous and despon­dent. Death, often triv­i­al­ized by the film indus­try, intrudes upon his thoughts amid the lux­u­ry of the lounge, forc­ing him to con­front his own mor­tal­i­ty in an unwel­come way.

In Chap­ter 66 of “All the Col­ors of the Dark,” Patch finds him­self out­side a bak­ery, where the sweet aro­ma of baked goods wafts in the air. He watch­es Mrs. Odell dis­play her fresh breads while feel­ing dazed from the con­fronta­tion with Chuck and his gang. The group approach­es, rip­ping down his posters, and he con­fronts them with a cal­lous remark about being gut­less. Chuck, the group’s leader, responds weak­ly by accus­ing Patch of lit­ter­ing, show­cas­ing the dis­con­nect between them.

As Chuck holds up a poster of a girl Patch invent­ed, he feels an unset­tling realization—these boys are too sim­i­lar in their priv­i­leged back­grounds, like­ly bond­ed through sports and their par­ents’ mun­dane soci­etal roles. When Chuck ridicules Patch with “five on one,” Patch provoca­tive­ly asks if they need more, inad­ver­tent­ly invit­ing trou­ble. The sit­u­a­tion esca­lates as he’s shoved to the ground, endur­ing a flur­ry of punch­es while tast­ing blood and sur­round­ing him­self with thoughts of the girl rep­re­sent­ed in his posters.

Remem­ber­ing a tougher beat­ing he sur­vived from Eli Aaron, Patch stands defi­ant­ly, grin­ning as if invit­ing more. Sud­den­ly, a girl—Misty—intervenes, strik­ing Chuck with a baguette. This unex­pect­ed act alters the dynam­ics, and Chuck retreats, vis­i­bly shak­en. Misty show­cas­es con­fi­dence and inten­si­ty, caus­ing Chuck­’s group to recon­sid­er their actions. Her pres­ence changes the bat­tle’s stakes.

As Patch col­lects his posters, he admires Misty’s styl­ish appearance—her jeans flared at the ankle, and her blonde hair cas­cad­ing over her shoul­der. The group dis­pers­es slow­ly, leav­ing Patch and Misty alone. They work togeth­er to re-tape the posters, solid­i­fy­ing their bond amid the chaos.

Misty then invites Patch to din­ner with her par­ents, cit­ing grat­i­tude or pos­si­bly guilt, while hand­ing him the baguette she made for him. Patch jokes about the bague­tine hav­ing Chuck­’s blood, acknowl­edg­ing their quirky yet alarm­ing con­nec­tion amidst the chaos of their high school dra­ma. The chap­ter ends with an acknowl­edg­ment of past griev­ances about bor­rowed sil­ver cut­lery, reflect­ing their grow­ing rela­tion­ship against the back­drop of ado­les­cent con­flicts.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER
66
I didn’t let Lucien’s dec­la­ra­tion sink in.
Nes­ta, how­ev­er, whirled on him. “She is no such thing,” she said, and
shoved him again.
Lucien didn’t move an inch. His face was pale as death as he stared at
Elain. My sis­ter said noth­ing, the iron ring glint­ing dul­ly on her fin­ger.
The King of Hybern mur­mured, “Inter­est­ing. So very inter­est­ing.” He
turned to the queens. “See? I showed you not once, but twice that it is safe.
Who should like to be Made first? Per­haps you’ll get a hand­some Fae lord
as your mate, too.”
The youngest queen stepped for­ward, her eyes indeed dart­ing between all
the Fae men assem­bled. As if they were hers for the pick­ing.
The king chuck­led. “Very well, then.”
Hate flood­ed me, so vio­lent I had no con­trol over it, no song in my heart
but its war-cry. I was going to kill them. I was going to kill all of them—
“If you’re so will­ing to hand out bar­gains,” Rhys sud­den­ly said, ris­ing to
his feet and tug­ging me with him, “per­haps I’ll make one with you.”
“Oh?”
Rhys shrugged.
No. No more bargains—no more sac­ri­fices. No more giv­ing him­self
away piece by piece.
No more.
And if the king refused, if there was noth­ing to do but watch my friends
die …
I could not accept it. I could not endure it—not that.
And for Rhys, for the fam­i­ly I’d found … They had not need­ed me—not
real­ly. Only to nul­li­fy the Caul­dron.
I had failed them. Just as I had failed my sis­ters, whose lives I’d now
shat­tered …
I thought of that ring wait­ing for me at home. I thought of the ring on
Elain’s fin­ger, from a man who would now like­ly hunt her down and kill
her. If Lucien let her leave at all.
I thought of all the things I want­ed to paint—and nev­er would.
But for them—for my fam­i­ly both of blood and my own choos­ing, for
my mate … The idea that hit me did not seem so fright­en­ing.
And so I was not afraid.
I dropped to my knees in a spasm, grip­ping my head as I gnashed my
teeth and sobbed, sobbed and pant­ed, pulling at my hair—
The fist of that spell didn’t have time to seize me again as I explod­ed past
it.
Rhys reached for me, but I unleashed my pow­er, a flash of that white,
pure light, all that could escape with the damper from the king’s spell. A
flash of the light that was only for Rhys, only because of Rhys. I hoped he
under­stood.
It erupt­ed through the room, the gath­ered force hiss­ing and drop­ping
back.
Even Rhys had frozen—the king and queens open­mouthed. My sis­ters
and Lucien had whirled, too.
But there, deep with­in Day’s light … I gleaned it. A puri­fy­ing, clear
pow­er. Cursebreaker—spellbreaker. The light wiped through every phys­i­cal
trap­ping, show­ing me the snarls of spells and glam­ours, show­ing me the
way through … I burned brighter, look­ing, look­ing—
Buried inside the bone-walls of the cas­tle, the wards were woven strong.
I sent that blind­ing light flar­ing once more—a dis­trac­tion and sleight of
hand as I sev­ered the wards at their ancient arter­ies.
Now I only had to play my part.
The light fad­ed, and I was curled on the floor, head in my hands.
Silence. Silence as they all gawked at me.
Even Juri­an had stopped gloat­ing from where he now leaned against the
wall.
But my eyes were only on Tam­lin as I low­ered my hands, gulp­ing down
air, and blinked. I looked at the host and the blood and the Night Court, and
then final­ly back at him as I breathed, “Tam­lin?”
He didn’t move an inch. Beyond him, the king gaped at me. Whether he
knew I’d ripped his wards wide open, whether he knew it was inten­tion­al,
was not my concern—not yet.
I blinked again, as if clear­ing my head. “Tam­lin?” I peered at my hands,
the blood, and when I beheld Rhys, when I saw my grim-faced friends, and
my drenched, immor­tal sis­ters—
There was noth­ing but shock and con­fu­sion on Rhys’s face as I
scram­bled back from him.
Away from them. Toward Tam­lin. “Tam­lin,” I man­aged to say again.
Lucien’s eye widened as he stepped between me and Elain. I whirled on the
King of Hybern. “Where—” I again faced Rhysand. “What did you do to
me,” I breathed, low and gut­tur­al. Back­ing toward Tam­lin. “What did you
do? ”
Get them out. Get my sis­ters out.
Play—please play along. Please—
There was no sound, no shield, no glim­mer of feel­ing in our bond. The
king’s pow­er had blocked it out too thor­ough­ly. There was noth­ing I could
do against it, Curse­break­er or no.
But Rhys slid his hands into his pock­ets as he purred, “How did you get
free?”
“What?” Juri­an seethed, push­ing off the wall and storm­ing toward us.
But I turned toward Tam­lin and ignored the fea­tures and smell and
clothes that were all wrong. He watched me war­i­ly. “Don’t let him take me
again, don’t let him—don’t—” I couldn’t keep the sobs from shud­der­ing
out, not as the full force of what I was doing hit me.
“Feyre,” Tam­lin said soft­ly. And I knew I had won.
I sobbed hard­er.
Get my sis­ters out, I begged Rhys through the silent bond. I ripped the
wards open for you—all of you. Get them out.
“Don’t let him take me,” I sobbed again. “I don’t want to go back.”
And when I looked at Mor, at the tears stream­ing down her face as she
helped Cass­ian get upright, I knew she real­ized what I meant. But the tears
vanished—became sor­row for Cass­ian as she turned a hate­ful, hor­ri­fied face
to Rhysand and spat, “What did you do to that girl?”
Rhys cocked his head. “How did you do it, Feyre?” There was so much
blood on him. One last game—this was one last game we were to play
togeth­er.
I shook my head. The queens had fall­en back, their guards form­ing a wall
between us.
Tam­lin watched me care­ful­ly. So did Lucien.
So I turned to the king. He was smil­ing. Like he knew.
But I said, “Break the bond.”
Rhysand went still as death.
I stormed to the king, knees bark­ing as I dropped to the floor before his
throne. “Break the bond. The bar­gain, the—the mat­ing bond. He—he made
me do it, made me swear it—”
“No,” Rhysand said.
I ignored him, even as my heart broke, even as I knew that he hadn’t
meant to say it— “Do it,” I begged the king, even as I silent­ly prayed he
wouldn’t notice his ruined wards, the door I’d left wide open. “I know you
can. Just—free me. Free me from it.”
“No,” Rhysand said.
But Tam­lin was star­ing between us. And I looked at him, the High Lord I
had once loved, and I breathed, “No more. No more death—no more
killing.” I sobbed through my clenched teeth. Made myself look at my
sis­ters. “No more. Take me home and let them go. Tell him it’s part of the
bar­gain and let them go. But no more—please.”
Cass­ian slow­ly, every move­ment pained, stirred enough to look over a
shred­ded wing at me. And in his pain-glazed eyes, I saw it—the
under­stand­ing.
The Court of Dreams. I had belonged to a court of dreams. And
dream­ers.
And for their dreams … for what they had worked for, sac­ri­ficed for … I
could do it.
Get my sis­ters out, I said to Rhys one last time, send­ing it into that stone
wall between us.
I looked to Tam­lin. “No more.” Those green eyes met mine—and the
sor­row and ten­der­ness in them was the most hideous thing I’d ever seen.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I sit on the couch, star­ing at the ceil­ing. I
think of my mem­o­ries of my dad, the way he would throw me up in the
air in the back­yard, the way he would every once in a while let me eat
banana splits for break­fast.
Those mem­o­ries have always been tinged by how he died. They
have always had a bit­ter­sweet­ness to them because I believed it was
his mis­takes that took him from me too soon.
And now I don’t know what to make of him. I don’t know how to
think of him. A defin­ing trait is gone and is replaced by so much more
—for bet­ter or for worse.
At some point, after I start replay­ing the same images over and over
in my mind—memories of my father alive, imag­ined images of his final
moments and his death—I real­ize I can’t sit still any­more.
So I stand up, I walk into the hall­way, and I start look­ing for Eve­lyn.
I find her in the kitchen with Grace.
“So this is why I’m here?” I say, hold­ing the let­ter in the air.
“Grace, would you mind giv­ing us a moment?”
Grace gets up from her stool. “Sure.” She dis­ap­pears down the hall.
When she’s gone, Eve­lyn looks at me. “It’s not the only rea­son I
want­ed to meet you. I tracked you down to give you the let­ter,
obvi­ous­ly. And I had been look­ing for a way to intro­duce myself to you
that wasn’t quite so out of the blue, quite so shock­ing.”
“Vivant helped you with that, clear­ly.”
“It gave me a pre­tense, yes. I felt more com­fort­able hav­ing a major
mag­a­zine send you than call­ing you up on the phone and try­ing to
explain how I knew who you were.”
“So you fig­ured you’d just lure me here with the promise of a
best­seller.”
“No,” she says, shak­ing her head. “Once I start­ed research­ing you,
I read most of your work. Specif­i­cal­ly, I read your right-to-die piece.”
I put the let­ter on the table. I con­sid­er tak­ing a seat. “So?”
“I thought it was beau­ti­ful­ly writ­ten. It was informed, intel­li­gent,
bal­anced, and com­pas­sion­ate. It had heart. I admired the way you
deft­ly han­dled an emo­tion­al and com­pli­cat­ed top­ic.”
I don’t want to let her say any­thing nice to me, because I don’t want
to have to thank her for it. But my moth­er instilled in me a polite­ness
that kicks in when I least expect it. “Thank you.”
“When I read it, I sus­pect­ed that you would do a beau­ti­ful job with
my sto­ry.”
“Because of one small piece I wrote?”
“Because you’re tal­ent­ed, and if any­one could under­stand the
com­plex­i­ties of who I am and what I’ve done, it was prob­a­bly you. And
the more I’ve got­ten to know you, the more I know I was right.
What­ev­er book you write about me, it will not have easy answers. But
it will, I pre­dict, be unflinch­ing. I want­ed to give you that let­ter, and I
want­ed you to write my sto­ry, because I believe you to be the very best
per­son for the job.”
“So you put me through all this to assuage your guilt and make sure
you got the book about your life that you want­ed?”
Eve­lyn shakes her head, ready to cor­rect me, but I’m not done.
“It’s amaz­ing, real­ly. How self-inter­est­ed you can be. That even now,
even when you appear to want to redeem your­self, it’s still about you.”
Eve­lyn puts up her hand. “Don’t act like you haven’t ben­e­fit­ed from
this. You’ve been a will­ing par­tic­i­pant here. You want­ed the sto­ry. You
took advantage—deftly and smart­ly, I might add—of the posi­tion I put
you in.”
“Eve­lyn, seri­ous­ly,” I say. “Cut the crap.”
“You don’t want the sto­ry?” Eve­lyn asks, chal­leng­ing me. “If you
don’t want it, don’t take it. Let my sto­ry die with me. That is just fine.”
I am qui­et, unsure how to respond, unsure how I want to respond.
Eve­lyn puts out her hand, expec­tant­ly. She’s not going to let the
sug­ges­tion be hypo­thet­i­cal. It’s not rhetor­i­cal. It demands an answer.
“Go ahead,” she says. “Get your notes and the record­ings. We can
burn them all right now.”
I don’t move, despite the fact that she gives me ample time to do so.
“I didn’t think so,” she says.
“It’s the least I deserve,” I tell her, defen­sive. “It’s the fuck­ing least
you can give me.”
“Nobody deserves any­thing,” Eve­lyn says. “It’s sim­ply a mat­ter of
who’s will­ing to go and take it for them­selves. And you, Monique, are a
per­son who has proven to be will­ing to go out there and take what you
want. So be hon­est about that. No one is just a vic­tim or a vic­tor.
Every­one is some­where in between. Peo­ple who go around cast­ing
them­selves as one or the oth­er are not only kid­ding them­selves, but
they’re also painful­ly uno­rig­i­nal.”
I get up from the table and walk to the sink. I wash my hands,
because I hate how clam­my they feel. I dry them. I look at her. “I hate
you, you know.”
Eve­lyn nods. “Good for you. It’s such an uncom­pli­cat­ed feel­ing, isn’t
it? Hatred?”
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”
“Every­thing else in life is more com­plex. Espe­cial­ly your father.
That’s why I thought it was so impor­tant that you read that let­ter. I
want­ed you to know.”
“What, exact­ly? That he was inno­cent? Or that he loved a man?”
“That he loved you. Like that. He was will­ing to turn down roman­tic
love in order to stand by your side. Do you know what an amaz­ing
father you had? Do you know how loved you were? Plen­ty of men say
they’ll nev­er leave their fam­i­lies, but your father was put to the test and
didn’t even blink. I want­ed you to know that. If I had a father like that, I
would have want­ed to know.”
No one is all good or all bad. I know this, of course. I had to learn it
at a young age. But some­times it’s easy to for­get just how true it is.
That it applies to every­one.
Until you’re sit­ting in front of the woman who put your father’s dead
body in the driver’s seat of a car to save the rep­u­ta­tion of her best
friend—and you real­ize she held on to a let­ter for almost three decades
because she want­ed you to know how much you were loved.
She could have giv­en me the let­ter ear­li­er. She also could have
thrown it away. There’s Eve­lyn Hugo for you. Some­where in the
mid­dle.
I sit down and put my hands over my eyes, rub­bing them, hop­ing
that if I rub hard enough, maybe I can make my way to a dif­fer­ent
real­i­ty.
When I open them, I’m still here. I have no choice but to resign
myself to it.
“When can I release the book?”
“I won’t be around much longer,” Eve­lyn says, sit­ting down on a
stool by the island.
“Enough with the vagaries, Eve­lyn. When can I release the book?”
Eve­lyn absent­mind­ed­ly starts fold­ing an errant nap­kin that is sit­ting
hap­haz­ard­ly on the counter. Then she looks up at me. “It’s no secret
that the gene for breast can­cer can be inher­it­ed,” she says. “Although
if there were any jus­tice in the world, the moth­er would die of it well
before the daugh­ter.”
I look at the fin­er points of Evelyn’s face. I look at the cor­ners of her
lips, the edges of her eyes, the direc­tion of her brows. There is very
lit­tle emo­tion in any of them. Her face remains as sto­ic as if she were
read­ing me the paper.
“You have breast can­cer?” I ask.
She nods.
“How far along is it?”
“Far enough for me to need to hur­ry up and get this done.”
I look away when she looks at me. I’m not sure why. It’s not out of
anger, real­ly. It’s out of shame. I feel guilty that so much of me does
not feel bad for her. And stu­pid for the part of me that does.
“I saw my daugh­ter go through this,” Eve­lyn says. “I know what’s
ahead of me. It’s impor­tant that I get my affairs in order. In addi­tion to
final­iz­ing the last copy of my will and mak­ing sure Grace is tak­en care
of, I hand­ed over my most-prized gowns to Christie’s. And this . . . this
is the last of it. That let­ter. And this book. You.”
“I’m leav­ing,” I say. “I can’t take any more today.”
Eve­lyn starts to say some­thing, and I stop her.
“No,” I say. “I don’t want to hear any­thing else from you. Don’t say
anoth­er god­damn word, OK?”