Page 126 of There Are No Saints

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see Cole’s name on the display.

I pick up, turning away from Joanna’s frown.

“Why are there cops at your house?” Cole demands.

I hurry out of the living room, phone pressed against my ear and voice lowered so the others won’t hear.

“How do you—”

“Never mind that. What are they doing there?”

“He killed Erin,” I whisper into the phone, my hand shaking as I try to press it close against my ear. “He killed her, Cole. In my fucking bed. I came home and I found her—”

“Who have you told?” Cole interrupts.

“I—what do you mean?”

“Don’t tell the cops anything,” Cole orders. “Not a fucking thing.”

“I have to tell them! He killed Erin. He killed all those other girls too, I’m sure of it.”

I’m hurrying deeper into the house, trying to prevent any of my roommates from overhearing, but already the cops are banging on the door. I’ve got to get back out there.

“They’re not going to be able to do anything,” Cole says. “You’ll only make it worse.”

“How can you possibly—”

“What are you doing?” Joanna says.

She’s followed me all the way back to the dining room. Her arms are folded over her chest and her eyes are narrowed, no hint of the usual friendliness between us.

I end the call abruptly, stuffing the phone back in my pocket.

“That was Cole,” I say.

Joanna jaw shifts, like she’s chewing on something I can’t see.

“The police are here,” she reminds me. “They’re going to want to talk to you.”

I follow her back out to the living room, my heart already racing. I’m sick and guilty. Cole said I should keep my mouth shut, but there’s no way I can do that. Erin is dead. Shaw killed her, I’m certain of it. He needs to be locked up, today, right this minute.

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’sdead?”,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.

---