There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(72)

I don’t know when I changed my mind about killing her.

Maybe it was the moment she lifted her hand and let me close the manacle around her wrist.

Maybe it was even before that, when I opened the door and saw her standing there in that black dress. She’s beautiful, infinitely more beautiful than the Olgiati. I can’t shatter her.

I wrap her in a soft, fluffy towel and carry her into the living quarters attached to the studio. I rarely sleep here, so the space has the stark cleanliness of a hotel room, the blankets pulled tight across the bed from the last time the housekeeper visited.

I lay her down on the crisply-starched pillows, asking her, “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

It’s not like me to be nurturing. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever done it before. I enjoy testing out personas, seeing how they make me feel, the effect they have on other people.

In this instance, my motivations are slightly different. I want to revive Mara because I want to talk to her again. I want to know if she has any other ideas for the unfinished sculptures. And I want to know how she felt about what we did.

More than that . . . I want to hear whatever she decides to say to me. Typically, I know exactly what information I’m trying to extract from someone. Mara surprises me with comments and insights that I hadn’t foreseen. Letting her speak freely is more rewarding than manipulating her.

She’s a continual puzzle to me. I was shocked that she came here already understanding the dynamic between Shaw and myself. With a startlingly clear understanding of who and what I am.

Her recklessness is beyond anything I’ve seen. She put her life in my hands—willingly. Freely.

She trusted me. Believed in me.

I should be disgusted at her idiocy. At the fatal mistake she made.

And yet . . . somehow she was right. She knew what I would do better than I did.

I’ve never been in this position before. I’m cut loose. Floating in space. Unsure of anything anymore.

I check the fridge in the small kitchen. It’s filled with drinks and snacks, though usually the housekeeper ends up throwing away the food and buying more, because I often forget to eat while working.

I make a plate of fruit and cheese, pouring two glasses of Riesling, nicely chilled. Carrying the repast back to the bed, I see that Mara has sat up, her damp hair in a dark rope over one shoulder, her eyes silvery in the reflected light of the television.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” she asks me.

Smiling to myself, I set the food before her. Mara has an incredible ability to treat the bizarre as normal. To continue on in her daily life no matter what happens to her.

She tears into the food, stuffing BellaVitano and raspberries into her mouth.

“I’m starving,” she says, unnecessarily.

I eat the same thing as her, in the same order. Tasting the sharp, nutty cheese and the tart raspberries as one food. Sipping the wine in between, letting it pop in the back of my mouth. Closing my eyes like Mara does, focusing on the food.

“It’s not better than sex,” I say. “But it’s damn good.”

Mara laughs.

I don’t know if I’ve ever made her laugh before. I like the way it rolls out of her, throaty and pleased.

“Better than sex with some people,” she says. “But not you.”

I feel a warm burning in my chest. Is it the wine?

“You’re a responsive subject,” I say.

“Have you ever done that before?” she asks me.

She seems curious, not jealous.

“No,” I reply. “Not like that.”

“Neither have I,” she says, unnecessarily. I already know how uncreative men can be.

“What movie do you want?”

She shrugs. “I was just looking through Netflix.”

“What about the one you mentioned at the Halloween party? Is it on there?”

Mara blushes. “You don’t want to watch that. It’s old.”

“Yes I do. Put it on.”

She finds the film, which has a ridiculous illustrated poster, reminiscent of old fantasy novels from the 70s.

It’s a classic “portal into another world” story. I watch it like I watch everything—carefully, as if there’s going to be a test later.

“You think it’s stupid,” Mara says, finishing off the last of the berries, sucking the juice off her fingertips.

“No. I understand why you liked it when you were little.”

Mara nods. “I would have done anything to disappear into another world. Watching it now, I guess it’s kind of creepy how she’s a kid playing with toys and David Bowie is a grown ass man. I thought it was romantic. I guess I wished I had someone powerful who gave a shit about me.”

I look at her wild, elfin profile—ethereal like David Bowie, not soft like the youthful Jennifer Connoley.

“He’s not exactly taking care of her,” I point out. “He’s seducing her. Manipulating her.”

Mara turns her head, staring at me steadily with those metal-edged irises.

“I don’t want to be taken care of,” she says. “I want to be seen.”

My heart rate spikes as it only does for Mara. Not when I’m angry. Not when I’m violent. Only for her.

I was an ambush predator. I lived by concealment and camouflage.