Page 27 of His Sinner

The cheeriness in his tone morphs to confusion. “Possibly. I can ask my buddy down at the station.”

“Thank you. Let me text it to you. And before you ask, yes, I already blocked the number.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I kept getting repeat calls from an unknown number like somebody was on fire, but when I finally answered, they refused to say anything. I’d dismiss it as some stupid prank, but something crazy happened on my writing retreat.”

“What happened?” Trevor asks, more urgent now.

“I’m fine,” I reassure him. “But I thought I saw someone watching me through the window one night. And then there was another night that the power went out, and someone broke in. I know they’re probably not connected at all, but?—”

“Wait, Briar. Someone was lurking outside watching you through a window, broke into your house, and now you’re getting calls from a mysterious stranger? This has to be your stalker.”

I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “No. This isn’t Saint.”

He was with me inside Nicholson Manor when I saw the stranger lurking outside, but I can’t tell Trevor that.

“How do you know? You saw their face?”

“No,” I admit. “But I know this isn’t him.”

Trevor’s voice is full of skepticism now. “How?”

“I know where he was when the intruder was watching me and when they broke in. The intruder couldn’t have been him.”

“And what about the calls? How do you know he isn’t calling you from a new number?”

“They’re silent. That’s not his MO.”

Saint hasn’t been silent since that first night he lingered outside my house in a mask. Besides, what reason could he possibly have to call me from a different number?

“Maybe his MO is messing with your head,” Trevor suggests gently. I know he’s only trying to be a voice of reason, and maybe if I didn’t know Saint as well as I do and I had a rational brain cell left in my head, I’d agree with him. “I’ll see what I can do about getting the number traced.”

A relieved sigh unravels the tight knot in my chest. “Thank you.”

Before Trevor hangs up, he adds, “Just . . . don’t trust him, okay?”

I nearly tell him I’m struggling with the exact opposite problem. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully trust Saint, or anybody. “I won’t.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

SAINT

When Warren Marshall shuffles into the dimly lit lobby of the hotel, I wave him over to the plush armchairs. Other than the receptionist behind the desk, we’re alone.

He stops in his tracks, not particularly eager to be in my presence again. I crook a finger at him. Too bad he doesn’t have a choice.

Warren approaches reluctantly, glancing around for witnesses. He should know I’m smart enough not to kill a man somewhere so public. At least not when I’m without my mask.

With a sigh, he lowers himself into the plush armchair across from me, a low coffee table with magazines scattered across its surface between us. More like a dentist’s waiting room than a hotel lobby.

The single ear he has left is droopy, flaring out from his skull and dotted with liver spots. Warren takes in our surroundings again before leaning forward. “What do you want?”

“You’re wrong about me.” I adjust the stiff shirt cuff around my wrist. “Unlike you, I have no intentions of hurting Briar. Or of leaving her. If I intended to kill her, you’d already be planning her funeral.”

Warren’s mouth curdles in disgust. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“If I were a father, it would certainly reassure me to know the man betrothed to my daughter loves her unconditionally.”

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