Page 40 of Saint

Then I’ll be ready.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Until then, I’ll avoid my problems by focusing on figuring out who he is. If I want to gain the upper hand, I need to turn this around on him. And as unsettling as it is that he wired my bedroom, I can use that against him.

I’ll lure him out.

Just like I unintentionally did when I disappeared with Nixon at the Sigma Sin party. Saint probably didn’t plan to make himself known in a public setting. But when Nixon followed me downstairs, Saint couldn’t help himself.

Under the right circumstances, he acts on impulse.

All I have to do is use that to my advantage. I’ll get his attention and trap him into revealing who he is.

Taking my eyes off the ceiling, I set the small blue box Saint left for me down on my bed. I don’t need to ask whose tongue it is to know who it belonged to.

Nixon touched me and Saint made sure he paid for it. Ignoring the fact that Saint was the one who instructed him to do it.

Saint’s level of reasoning doesn’t equate. And the more I compare him to everything I’ve learned from my textbooks, the more I’m convinced of one thing: he’s a clinical psychopath.

Detachment. Disassociation.

Saint displays all the traits of someone with psychosis. He has no moral boundaries and, from what I’ve seen, no empathy. His kills are quick and emotionless. He doesn’t hesitate or show remorse.

Once Saint decides someone is in the wrong, he acts as he sees fit.

What I can’t figure out is Saint’s fascination with me. If he is a psychopath, am I his obsession? If he lacks the ability to form healthy emotional attachments, what are his plans for me?

And why do I continue trying to explain them away like he’s a clinical study and not someone terrorizing me and anyone who gets close?

I’m smarter than this, or so I thought. He warned me, but I’m still here, playing his game.

“Violet, movie time.” Mila clicks her nails against my closed door as she walks past. “If Teal is leaving her room, then you better get your ass out here and join this girls’ night.”

“Be right there.”

I grab the blue box Saint left on my bed and stuff it into the same dresser drawer I put the finger. If I had to guess, the tongue will disappear just like the finger did, which means Saint returns for them. Either to add them to the sick art collection he mentioned or so he can ensure I don’t go to the police with physical evidence.

He doesn’t leave his disgusting gifts with the intention of me keeping them. They’re a warning—a reminder. He’ll live up to his word, so I need to be careful how I decide to challengehim.

My gaze moves up to the ten-foot ceiling once more. To every crack and crevice, and my spine tingles.

Slipping into one of my sweaters to hide the marks on my skin, I head to the living room. At least it’s winter, which makes it easier to cover up the evidence of Saint’s path of destruction.

I wrap my hand around the opposite wrist and rub it. The cross he carved there is red and itchy as it starts to heal. Even when it does, it won’t fade completely, which I’m sure was intentional.

“Kill me now.” Teal rolls her eyes as Mila flips through rom-coms. “I’m not watching that shit.”

“Why not?” Mila’s face sours.

“Because it’s lame.”

“It is not. Stop being so depressing, Teal. Not everything has to be moody all the time.”

Mila is the head-in-the-clouds romantic of the group, and Teal is her opposite. Teal doesn’t believe in love or even try to understand it. She barely manages friendships, given the fact that she’d rather be locked away in her studio.

Luckily, she has the three of us dragging her out and forcing her to be social, or she might turn into a full-on recluse.

Mila pauses on another cheesy movie, and Teal groans.

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