Page 128 of There Are No Saints

Slowly, for what feels like the hundredth time, I repeat, “Because Shaw is the one who snatched me off the street six weeks ago. The exact fucking night we’re talking about—he fucked my roommate, and then he stole her ID and tracked me to my house.”

“I have the incident report here,” Hawks says, tapping his fingertips lightly on the folder.

Heat creeps up my neck, remembering the pouchy-eyed stare of Officer Fuckhead—his insulting questions, and the long silences after every answer.

“That cop was a troglodyte,” I spit. “I’m surprised he could type.”

Ignoring that, Hawks remarks, “It doesn’t say anything about Shaw in here.”

“That’s because I didn’t know it was him when I made the report.”

“Because you never actually saw him.”

My flush deepens.

“I didn’t see his face. But I saw how big he was. I felt it when he carried me. And I heard his voice.”

I add that last part desperately. I didn’t actually recognize Shaw’s voice at the time—he only said a few words, and his tone was flat, nothing like his usual charm. But I’ve seen how Cole can switch it on and off at will. I have no doubt that Shaw is just as proficient an actor.

“Officer Mickelsen had some doubts about your account of that evening,” Hawks says, taking off his glasses and polishing them carefully. Uncovered by the lenses, his blue eyes look reflective, not unlike the mirror. He can see out, but I can’t see in.

“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 seethis?”

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.

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