There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(9)

“You want another hit?” he asks, holding out the vape.

“Nah,” I say.

Weed hits me hard. I can already feel that loose warmth working on my body and my sense of time. I’m no longer sure how long we’ve been standing out here. Only that Joanna’s velvet dress is heavy with moisture.

“Some of us are gonna grab drinks at Zam Zam,” Frank says. “You wanna come?”

“I’ve got to work early,” I say.

The Sunday morning brunch shift is insane. Arthur won’t thank me if I’m late tomorrow.

“See ya, then,” Frank says, leaning back against the brick wall to take another puff.

I head off along the tree-lined street, wondering if Erin and Shaw are on their way back to his studio yet. Or straight to his apartment. I’m sure I’ll hear all the gory details in the morning.

The route back to my house isn’t particularly well-lit.

The bodega on the corner sends out a bright beacon of light, but the thickness of the laurels, the tall row houses, and the narrow, winding streets obscure the sparse streetlamps.

I’d like to put my headphones on while I walk, but I think the better of it, even though I probably look too poor for mugging.

Instead, I examine the facades of the houses I pass, the brightly painted scrollwork and well-tended window boxes giving way to chipped paint, rusted railings, and sagging steps as I draw closer to my own ramshackle house.

Gritty footsteps sound behind me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy some large, dark mass hurtling toward me.

I barely have time to turn before I’m struck across the back of the skull.





I wake in the trunk of a car.

I can tell it’s a trunk from the vibration of the engine, the smell of gasoline, and the centrifugal lurch that presses me against the tire wheel when the vehicle takes a hard left turn.

I can’t see anything because of the bag over my head.

Thick, black fabric presses against my face, sucking into my nostrils with every panicked breath. I shake my head wildly, trying to fling it off, but it’s cinched around my neck. Tape covers my mouth so tightly that I can’t even rip my lips apart.

My arms are bound behind my back with some thin, plasticky material—zip ties? My ankles are bound in the same way, my knees bent, the two points of contact wrenched together in a hog-tie so I can’t even kick.

The position is excruciating. My fingers and toes are so numb that for a moment I’m afraid they’re not even attached anymore.

I can’t get enough air. The smothering hood, the sealed trunk, the tape, the gasoline fumes . . . I’m panting faster and faster through my nostrils, head swimming. My stomach lurches, and I know that whatever else happens, I absolutely cannot allow myself to puke. With the tape over my mouth, I’ll aspirate the vomit.

Everything in me wants to scream, but I fight that urge just as hard. I don’t want this motherfucker to know I’m awake.

My head is pounding. I’m sure if I could reach up and feel the back of my skull, I’d find a lump the size of a baseball.

Where is he taking me?

Who the fuck is this?

I don’t bother to ask myself what he’s gonna do to me. I’m already riding the thin edge of hysteria—I don’t want to tip over the edge with visions of what this psychopath has planned.

I have to get out of the trunk. A tumble out of a moving car is the least of my worries right now.

I squirm around, feeling for the hidden latch that’s supposed to be inside every trunk. My numb fingers can barely differentiate between the rough material of the lining and the metal lid.

I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to puke.

These impulses cycle over and over, each one harder to crush than the last.

The car slows and my heart rate spikes.

No, no, no, no, no!

I don’t want to get wherever we’re going.

I scrabble madly for the latch, still finding nothing.

The car rolls to a gentle stop.

WHERE’S THE FUCKING LATCH!

I hear the engine shutting off, and the driver’s side door creaking open.

Too late.

Footsteps circle round to the trunk—slow and widely spaced.

Fighting every impulse within me, I lay perfectly still within the trunk. I want him to think I’m still unconscious.

It takes everything I have not to flinch or struggle as he puts his arms under my body and lifts me out.

It’s only when the cold air hits my flesh that I realize I’m naked—or at least, partly naked. My tits are definitely bare.

The sense of violation is almost enough to make me crack. To say nothing of the agony of being carried in this contorted position.

He walks along at that same steady, measured pace.

I can feel his heart beating against my shoulder, like a creature inside his chest, pulsing, and swelling. I hate the intimate feel of it thudding away. I hate even more his sour breath against my bare flesh.

Don’t puke. Don’t fucking puke.

I can’t tell how long he’s been walking.

I’m praying that he’ll set me down somewhere, maybe next to a nice, convenient rock I could use to break these ties.

My plans are impossibly weak, I know that, but my befuddled brain can’t seem to think of anything better. My head feels like it’s split along the back, each of his steps sending another bolt of pain through my skull.