There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(14)

He probably didn’t, that reckless piece of shit.

I’m not going back to check. I won’t go anywhere near the mine in the foreseeable future, or possibly ever again. That’s what angers me most—the loss of a convenient disposal location that took me a long time to find.

Shaw has successfully thrown a wrench in my process.

I ponder how best to deal with him.

I could just fucking kill him.

He’s been a thorn in my side for too long. He knows too much about me, and his careless behavior puts us both at risk.

However, Shaw is no oblivious art critic, easily lured and easily disposed of. He’s a predator, already on his guard because he’ll be expecting retaliation.

Besides that, killing within my personal circle adds an element of risk. Even Alastor isn’t stupid enough to hunt within the art world. He never slaughters women he’s dated publicly.

Our supposed rivalry is so well-publicized that Alastor’s disappearance would cast a spotlight in my direction, drawing unwanted parallels to Danvers.

I decide to break into Shaw’s apartment instead.

He invaded my space—I return the favor by visiting his penthouse on Balboa Street.

I disabled his security system, but as soon as I enter his living room, I spot the camera hidden in the face of his clock, doubtless sending a motion alert to his phone, as well as footage of me strolling around his space, insolently picking up his tchotchkes and flipping through his books.

I manhandle his belongings, setting them down in different places, knowing it will enrage him.

The penthouse is luxurious in precisely the way I’d expect from Alastor. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a postcard view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the flat, dark water of the bay.

The walls are hung with massive prints of Alastor’s own art. The canvases pop in eye-searing shades of fuchsia, canary, and violet. Shaw can’t keep the originals because he has to sell them to pay for his toys. He’s the son of a teacher and a plumber, something he proudly touts in interviews when he’s pretending to be salt of the earth. In truth, he hates that he was ever middle class. He’s acutely sensitive to the cars he drives, the watches he wears, the restaurants he frequents, in case he betrays himself.

His designer furniture is cartoonishly exaggerated—I see several serpentine Wiggle chairs and a Magistretti lamp that looks like a chrome mushroom. His couch is a giant scarlet gummi bear.

A gleaming Harley parks against the far wall, an electric guitar set in a stand next to the bike.

I highly fucking doubt that Shaw plays the guitar.

Everything is a performance with him. Everything is for show.

This apartment screams “eccentric artist” because that’s how he’d love to be perceived.

I open a bottle of merlot and pour myself a glass.

A key scratches in the lock twenty minutes later.

Shaw’s heavy tread crosses the open space between the kitchen and the living room.

I’m sitting at the head of his dining table, sipping the wine.

“Hello, Cole,” he says.

He’s very angry, though he’s trying not to show it. There’s a tightness to his lips, a flush to his skin.

“Hello, Shaw. Have a drink.”

I pour him a glass of his own wine.

His hand twitches as he takes it.

The tension is thick between us. We’ve never been alone together. I’ve only spoken to him at formal events.

“This is cozy,” Alastor says.

“I was admiring your view. My house is just over there . . .”

I nod toward my own mansion, perched on the ridge directly above the bay, clearly visible from the living room window. In fact, it cuts off the lower-left corner of Alastor’s view.

“I know,” he says, molars grinding.

I take another sip of the wine, thick and plummy.

Shaw does the same, the glass dwarfed by his over-large hand. His bull-like shoulders hunch almost up to his ears. His biceps bulge as he raises his arm.

I’m sure he’s making the same calculation—his strength against my speed. His brutality against my cunning. I see no clear winner—a dilemma that intrigues us both.

Alastor relaxes, his smile widening, tiny threads of wine between his teeth.

“How did you enjoy my gift?” he says.

“I didn’t.”

Shaw frowns, disappointed.

“What a waste,” he says. “I thought you’d do something with those tits at least—so much better than I expected, once I got them out. You never know what you’ll find . . . flat as a board under a push-up bra, or a pussy that looks like a handful of roast beef.” He laughs crudely. “Sometimes though . . . sometimes it’s better than you hoped. Sometimes it’s near perfect . . .”

“Not my type,” I repeat dismissively.

His face darkens.

“The fuck she wasn’t. You did something with her before you tossed her down the shaft.”

I hesitate a fraction of a second, puzzled by Shaw’s words.

I didn’t put the girl down the mine shaft. I didn’t move her at all. But Shaw seems certain I did.

Mistaking my pause, Shaw chuckles. “I knew it. Tell me what you did to her.”

I rise from the table, setting down my glass.

Shaw is ravenous for details, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. “Did she fight? She looked like the type to fight.”