There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(61)

It feels like a trap. But also like an opportunity.

Stay or go? I’ve never been so torn.

If I go home, then tomorrow I’ll be right back where I was, staked out by Mara’s house, wracked by the paranoia of when and where Shaw will attack.

That’s what pushes me to cross the road, to follow Shaw inside the crumbling tenement.

Inside is black as pitch, so damp that I can hear water dripping down from the upper levels. The stairs are crumbling, with large gaps between risers. The stench of moldering boards and stale urine assails my nostrils. Beneath that, the unmistakable smell of putrefaction. It could be rats that died in the walls. Or something else . . .

I stand perfectly still, listening for Shaw.

All I hear is that drip, drip, drip of water, and further up, wind groaning through open rafters.

I let my eyes adjust until I can make out enough detail to walk without tripping over the piles of old construction materials and the mounds of shredded tarp and old blankets where addicts have slept.

Shaw isn’t on the main level. Which means I’ll have to climb the stairs.

I make my way up slowly, careful not to dislodge a single pebble. Any sound will echo in this desolate space.

I’m not afraid. But I am aware that I could be walking to my death, or his. The next few minutes may be the most crucial of my life.

I see a light at the head of the stairs—dim and slightly purplish.

That is what assures me that Shaw has laid a trap. He’s mimicking the light at the Halloween party. Taunting me with references to Mara.

Still, I keep climbing. I’m committed to this course. We both intend to see this through.

I step into the space at the top of the stairs. It’s one, vast open cavern, all the walls knocked down.

In the center, I see a figure, suspended in space.

Not Shaw.

It’s a girl, strung up in the air like an insect in a web. Her arms and legs are outstretched, pulled to their furthest limit. Even her long hair has been bound at the ends and pulled all around her head in a dark corona.

She was alive when he tied her into the web—I can tell from the welts around her wrists and ankles where she pulled and struggled. She even tore out some of her hair.

But she’s dead now. Shaw cut her wrists and her throat, letting her bleed out. The dark blood lays in a gleaming puddle beneath her, like a hole through the floor.

Because Shaw has never been subtle, he’s woven snakes all through his web. Actual snakes, as dead as the girl. He wrapped several around her limbs, stuffed them in the gash in her throat, and even twined them in her hair.

The message is clear.

What’s not clear is where the fuck Shaw went. He must have gone out another way . . .

Before I can even begin to look, I’m jolted by the last sound I want to hear: the crackle of a police radio.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

It’s too late to go down the stairs—they’re already inside the building. I can hear them swarming in, trying to be quiet, but failing miserably because cops are fucking awful at stakeouts.

Shaw called them. He trapped me in here with his latest kill. And I walked right into it, in the stupidest mistake I’ve ever made.

If I can’t go down, there’s only one way out.

Shucking off my coat, I wrap it around my arm and punch through the window. The cops hear the noise. They come thundering up the stairs at full speed, shouting to each other.

I’m already climbing out, scaling the rusty drainpipe running up the side of the building. The metal is eaten through like lace, crumbling under my hands, the screws pulling out and the whole pipe coming away from the wall. I barely have time to seize the gutter in one hand before I’m swinging out into open air.

I haul myself up one-handed, palms cut and god knows what strain of tetanus now coursing through my blood.

The rooftop is hardly any better. It’s nothing but flat concrete, nowhere to hide, not so much as a chimney.

The closest building is fifteen feet away. The gap between plunges down twelve stories to a bare concrete alley. Not even a fucking dumpster waits below to break my fall.

Fifteen feet.

If it were ten, I could jump it.

Fifteen is dicey.

The next building over is slightly lower—that could help.

Through the broken window, I hear the cops ascending to the room. Discovering the body of the girl. Fanning out, searching for me.

I’ve got seconds at most.

I back up to the far side of the building and then I sprint toward the ledge. I run as hard and as fast as I can, launching myself into space.

I fall forward and down, arms stretched out in front of me. When my feet hit, I tuck into a roll and tumble across the roof, coming to a stop flat on my back.

Not fucking far enough. I hear sirens, cop cars pulling up on both sides. They’ll be spread across the area in moments.

No time for strategy or planning. I leap to my feet and sprint again, running for the next building in the row.

Run, run, run, run . . . JUMP!

The third building is lower still, by two stories.

I crash down hard, my right ankle buckling beneath me. It twists and I hear an awful popping sound. Hot, electric pain shoots up the outside of my leg.

Forcing myself up anyway, I hobble to the edge of the building. This one has a fire escape still in place, running from roof to ground level. Using the railings as a crutch, I limp down as fast as I can, cursing my ankle, cursing that I’ve put myself in this fucking ludicrous position.