There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(76)

“He was an incompetent piece of shit,” I hiss, teeth bared.

“He thought you were making it up. He thought you did it to yourself.”

I want to rip up that folder and fling the pieces in Hawks’ face.

With great effort, I say, “Did you look at the pictures? Did you see this?”

I hold up my arm, yanking back the sleeve of my dress. Forcing him to look at the long, ugly scar running up my wrist, still red and raised, livid as a brand. “I didn’t do that to myself.”

Hawks examines my wrist, as if mentally comparing it to the photographs inside the folder. Unlike Officer Fuckhead, he doesn’t mention the other scars, the old ones, and for that I’m grateful.

“It must have taken a lot of grit to pick yourself up and get out to the road, with all the blood you lost,” he says.

His voice is soft and low, his expression gentle as he looks from my wrist to my face. He’s probably just buttering me up, trying to get me to lower my guard. Still, I can feel my shoulders relaxing from their hunched position.

“I got lucky,” I say. “If a car hadn’t come along to pick me up, I’d be dead.”

“And why is Erin dead?” Hawks presses. “Why would Shaw want to hurt your roommate?”

This is where we venture into dangerous territory.

I can’t talk about Shaw’s obsession with Cole. I shouldn’t talk about Cole at all.

Maybe it’s wrong for me to protect him, but I feel compelled to do it. I’ve told Cole things I’ve never told to anyone, and he’s done the same to me. Whatever secrets he’s shared, I’m not about to spill them to the cops.

It won’t help Erin either way.

“Shaw was hitting on me the night of the art show. Erin interrupted us. He attacked me later that night. I think he thought I was dead. When he saw me at a Halloween party, it fired him up again. He broke into my house, and since I wasn’t there, he killed Erin instead.”

“You were at your boyfriend’s house?” Hawks says.

Now I’m the color of a stoplight. Calling Cole my boyfriend feels wrong on all kinds of levels, but all I can do is nod.

“That’s right.”

“He’s outside right now, raising a ruckus,” Hawks says, watching my face to see my reaction.

Unfortunately for me, I have a shit poker face. I’m sure Hawks can tell exactly how much that surprises and pleases me.

“He is?”

“He’s threatening to call a whole team of lawyers if I don’t let you out.”

“I assume I can leave any time I want. I haven’t been put under arrest.”

“That’s right,” Hawks says. “So why haven’t you?”

“Because I care about Erin. She’s not just a roommate, she’s one of my best friends. And she was murdered in my fucking bed. It was my—” I swallow hard. “I feel responsible.”

“You want to help,” Hawks says, leaning forward across the table, his blue eyes fixed on mine.

I nod.

“Then tell me something . . .”

He opens the folder, taking out a photograph, sliding it across the table toward me.

The picture was taken from above, looking directly down at Erin. I’ve already seen everything it shows: her hands open on either side of her, palms up. The flowers scattered across her belly. Her red hair trailing like seaweed on the wet bed.

“Why was she killed like this, arranged like this?” Hawks points at the soaked bed. “Why was she drowned?”

“Drowned?” I say, blankly.

“That was the cause of death. Someone wedged a funnel in her mouth and poured water into her lungs until she suffocated.”

I shake my head slowly, staring at her pale, frightened face. The way she’s posed puzzles me as much as it did when I first found her. Erin looks completely unlike herself, face scrubbed of makeup, clad in an old-fashioned gown, silvery and beaded . . .

“That dress isn’t hers,” I say, frowning.

“Are you sure?”

“She wouldn’t wear something so . . .”

I trail off. Slowly, I turn the photograph so Erin is laying horizontally instead of vertically. I squint at the willow boughs, at the red poppies . . .

“What is it?” Hawkes says, sharply.

“It’s . . . a painting.”

“What do you mean?”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding, becoming more certain by the moment.

“He posed her like Ophelia.”

“Are you talking about Hamlet?”

“Yeah. John Everett Millais painted the scene where Ophelia drowns in a river. This is what she looks like,” I hold up the photograph. “Shaw recreated the painting.”

Hawkes takes the picture from me and examines it anew, his expression skeptical.

“I told you!” I insist. “Shaw’s an artist. He’d know that painting.”

“You’re all artists,” Hawks says, tucking the photograph back inside his folder. “You, Shaw, Erin . . . all your roommates.”

“Except Peter,” I amend.

“It doesn’t point the finger at Shaw,” Hawks says.

“Then what would?” I snap.

“Physical evidence.”