Page 4 of The Dirty Saint

“You and me, Agent, we’re done,” I say. “So if you have any more questions, feel free to insert them wherever the fuck you’d like because I am not saying another goddamn word.”

* * *

I go home at night to an empty house. It’s so quiet I can hear my heartbeat. I want to cut it out of me.

I grab a wine glass from inside the cabinet and pour myself a nice, heaping glass of pinot grigio. I don’t so much as sip it as I inhale it.

As I put the wine down, I notice the faint markings from where my wrists had been bound. Honestly, it’s a miracle I made it out of that basement alive.

I pour myself another glass and bring it up to my lips.

I know I shouldn’t be drinking away my problems. It isn’t smart. There are much better ways I can be trying to heal, like yoga and therapy.

I continue to inhale my pinot grigio.

“I laid there, unable to move or speak or scream. You pinned me down and forced yourself inside of me.”

The doorbell rings and interrupts my thoughts. A handsome man in a suit appears. I peek my head out slightly, hiding the fact I have a gun not two feet away that I’m willing to use. You start to lose trust after a while when you are put in positions where it often turns to lies.

“Is this the home of Ezra Evaline Maya?”

I nod.

“This is.”

“Ms. Maya, you have been requested at Deacon Prison by an inmate who goes by the name of Michael Santo.”

I slam the door without thinking.

“Ms. Maya?”

I rest my back against the brown wood, closing my eyes before composing myself and apologizing.

“What does he want?” I ask.

“To make amends.”

I laugh.

“Did he tell you that? Really? The man who wanted me dead and hired to have me killed now wants to establish peace? I think I’m going to need another bottle of wine. You want some?”

The man in the suit shakes his head. “I don’t drink on the job.”

“Neither do I,” I say. “Can’t have my judgments impaired.”

I grab a bottle from my cellar and take a long chug. Afterward, I put it down on my living room table. A little bit spills off onto the side of the bottle.

“Ms. Maya—”

“It’s Lieutenant Maya, and the answer is no.”

That piece of shit of a human doesn’t get to summon me. Not anymore. I won’t be his little puppet on a string.

The man takes a small step into my home. “He needs to see you, Lieutenant Maya.”

I reveal my gun, and he steps back.

“He’ll get over it.”

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