There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(75)

I follow Joanna back to the living room where two uniformed officers are already in the process of interviewing my roommates. Joss and Brinley are just now hearing that Erin’s body is upstairs. Joss keeps repeating, “Are you serious? You’re saying she’s dead?”, like she might not be hearing right. Brinley is hyperventilating.

The medics hustle up the stairs. They’re not going to be able to help Erin, but they’re probably checking to be sure. I remember the feeling of Erin’s cold, rubbery flesh, the stiffness of her joints, and my stomach does a slow, nauseating flip.

“Who found her?” one of the officers says.

“I did,” I pipe up, stepping forward.

The officer looks me over, quick and practiced. His placid face shows no reaction, but I’m certain he knows that I’m nervous, that I’m sweating, that I’m shaky with guilt and fear and absolute devastation.

“Do you know what happened to her?” he says.

“No,” I shake my head. “But I know who did it.”





Ten hours later, I’m stuck in an interrogation room down at the police station.

I’ve fallen asleep several times over the hours, so exhausted that no amount of stress, frustration, or burnt black coffee can keep me awake.

Every time I drift off, a cop comes barging into the room on some flimsy pretext, jolting me awake, and then leaves again. That’s how I know they’re watching me through the one-way glass, and how I know I’m definitely a suspect.

Officer Hawks has come back twice to ask me questions.

I’ve told him everything I know about Alastor Shaw, but nothing about Cole.

And I’m feeling pretty fucking shitty about that.

I told myself it’s irrelevant. Cole didn’t kill Erin. He was with me the whole time.

But he’s killed other people.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to block out the dreary interrogation room—the cold metal table, the depressing styrofoam cup of coffee, the greasy shine of the one-way mirror.

I don’t know if he has. I don’t know what he’s done.

Yes you do. He told you.

I remember Cole’s face the night of the Halloween party. How still it became, and how hard, each line carved into the flesh: “I filet people with precision . . . he does what I do BADLY.”

Maybe he was trying to scare me.

He was definitely trying to scare me.

But that doesn’t mean he was lying . . .

So why did I go to his house last night? Why did I let him put his hands all over me? Why did I let him tie me down on his table?

Because he’s not a soulless monster, whatever he might pretend. I see much more than that inside of him.

Shaw on the other hand . . .

The door creaks open once more. It’s Hawks, his uniform looking decidedly less crisp than it did this morning, stubble shadowing his jawline.

He sits down across from me, placing a folder flat on the table between us.

“Did you find Shaw?” I demand.

“Yes, I found him,” Hawks says, calmly.

“And?”

I can barely keep still in my chair, from nerves and the effect of all that nasty double-brewed coffee. I’m tired and jittery, not a good combination.

“He recognized Erin once we showed him a picture. But he says he only knew her from a casual encounter six weeks ago. He says he hasn’t seen her since.”

“He’s lying!”

“He’s got an alibi,” Hawks says, flatly. “He was with a girl last night. We talked to her. “

“Then she’s lying too! Or she fell asleep, or . . . something,” I trail off weakly.

“Why are you so certain it’s him?” Hawks says, twirling his pen between his fingers.

Hawks is on the younger side of forty, with an athletic build, black-rimmed glasses, and meticulously-polished shoes. His tone is polite, but he doesn’t fool me for a second. I’ve spent enough time around Cole to know when I’m being tested.

Slowly, for what feels like the hundredth time, I repeat, “Because Shaw is the one who snatched me off the street six weeks ago. The exact fucking night we’re talking about—he fucked my roommate, and then he stole her ID and tracked me to my house.”

“I have the incident report here,” Hawks says, tapping his fingertips lightly on the folder.

Heat creeps up my neck, remembering the pouchy-eyed stare of Officer Fuckhead—his insulting questions, and the long silences after every answer.

“That cop was a troglodyte,” I spit. “I’m surprised he could type.”

Ignoring that, Hawks remarks, “It doesn’t say anything about Shaw in here.”

“That’s because I didn’t know it was him when I made the report.”

“Because you never actually saw him.”

My flush deepens.

“I didn’t see his face. But I saw how big he was. I felt it when he carried me. And I heard his voice.”

I add that last part desperately. I didn’t actually recognize Shaw’s voice at the time—he only said a few words, and his tone was flat, nothing like his usual charm. But I’ve seen how Cole can switch it on and off at will. I have no doubt that Shaw is just as proficient an actor.

“Officer Mickelsen had some doubts about your account of that evening,” Hawks says, taking off his glasses and polishing them carefully. Uncovered by the lenses, his blue eyes look reflective, not unlike the mirror. He can see out, but I can’t see in.