Page 51 of Sullied Saints

"Because I want you to live with me."

I nearly choke on my orange juice. "What?" I splutter. Dirk only shrugs, nonplussed by my reaction. "We've barely been dating for two months!" I protest.

"We've known each other for years. And we've spent very few nights apart in that time, anyway."

Shaking my head, I point out, "Tawill doesn't know for sure. Most people aren't supposed to know. How will we explain having the same address?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. It’s not strictly against the rules. Besides, if she was going to fire you, it probably would have been last week when you mouthed off at her." He smirks, making me cringe as I recall my bravado in her office, and then her concerns, which have settled as a cold possibility in my gut right alongside Tristan being executed.

"Still, that’s not the point…"

Stepping around the counter, Dirk squeezes my arm. "Think about it. I'm ready, if you are."

I sip at my tea, even though anything like an appetite has fled, nerves in its place.

It’s still early, but we make for the precinct while the sun is still hugging the horizon. The halls and elevator are quiet, with the long winter nights pushing the days shorter, most choose to stay in until they absolutely must leave.

We head out to the front of the building where Dirk left his car. "Has anything come of those people under witness protection? Any weirdo attempted to reach them?" I ask as we step out of the elevator into the wide, white foyer.

"Not that I know of, just the usual media wanting every detail from them. Such as how they neglected the kids in their care—for once I’m on the side of those newshounds."

It feels like we’re the first people to cross the foyer this morning, having come around the back via the mailbox, the way most of the residents reach their cars. The reception desk as yet unmanned, the glass doors to the small courtyard between the building and street sliding open as we approach. "Maybe she'll go quiet again," I venture, "We don't really know what she meant by that poem, after all… Oh!” I gasp, bumping into Dirk when he abruptly stops right in front of me on the narrow path. “What is it?"

But he doesn't answer me, rather he’s stepping backwards, reaching to grip my arm and tug me back behind him as he does. A shot of anxiety hits me when I get a glance of his profile. With a deep dread in my gut, I know that when I follow his gaze, when I see what he’s locked onto, it’s going to be something I won’t ever forget.

The early noise from the street, the occasional toot of a horn, even the chittering of birds none the wiser for what they share their little strip of nature with, dulls, overpowered by the soft creak of the swinging rope. The morning light is too bright on the white strips, too innocent and golden on the plaster.

He’s justthere, nestled among the bare branches of the trees. The cocoon is split open halfway down the body, the man within, no longer a human, just a body, an ornament, skin almost as white as the hardened cloth, the hollows of his eyes and cheeks competing with the darkness of his hair. He tips outwards a little, as though about to slip from the cocoon and fall the handful of metres to the path he dangles above. I can’t help but imagine the sound, the crunch. I anticipate it.

But of course, he’s been here for hours. He’s not moving any more than that swinging rope allows.

My hand has come to my mouth, heart thumping. Dirk’s grip on my arm brings me back, and it’s him staring, face pale, eyes blank in shock.

I need to do something. Call someone. Get him out of here.

Yes, that first.

I turn my hand, clutching his wrist. "Dirk, back inside." He doesn't respond. "We don't know who did this or where they are," I insist, my own ears as numb to my words as his. Tugging again, I snap, "Stop looking." Still nothing. I round him, grabbing the front of his shirt to shake him, and finally, his gaze, so haunted, with black circles materialised under his eyes, comes down to me, unseeing. I think he might pass out. "Dirk, I need you to come back inside. With me. For me."

He blinks and turns eerily cooperative as I take his hand and lead him back towards those doors. As I do, I see the side of the building, and the large white letters scrawled in a slant against the dark plaster.

Family is forever.

My stomach drops, and I know instantly this is no copycat. This is the real thing. Cocooner. She's early. And now, she's left us a message.

***

After I make the rushed call from behind the reception desk, I sit with Dirk in the foyer, out of sight of the courtyard. He's come back to lucidity somewhat, though he's pale and stunned-looking, features that make him share even more in common with the body out there.

It’s not hard to guess Cocooner did that as purposefully as she chose this location. My stomach turns. She’s sick. She’s never not going to be sick.

A family exits the elevator, parents and a small child, smiling and heading for the exit. I jump up, barring their way. "Sorry, the doors are… off limits for now, please use the back."

"Off limits?" the father asks sceptically, eying me like I might be mad.

I hear the sirens, and so do they, peering past me as the lights flash beyond the courtyard wall. "Yes, off limits. Please go the other way."

"I don't see…"

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