Page 127 of There Are No Saints

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 wasdefinitelytrying 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.

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