Page 125 of There Are No Saints

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I wait downstairswith the others, my whole body tense, waiting for the sound of sirens.

Carrie is huddled up with Peter, crying softly.

Frank thought we were playing a prank on him, and he wouldn’t go downstairs until we let him look inside the room. Now he’s sitting over against the window, his skin the color of cement, both hands pressed against his mouth.

Melody keeps pacing the room, until Heinrich snaps at her to stop.

None of us are talking. It might be shock, or it might be the same reason Joanna is staring at me from across the room, somber and silent.

They know this is my fault.

Nobody said it. But I can feel the tension, the glances in my direction.

I don’t need an accusation to feel guilty. Erin is dead because of me.

Shaw did it, I know it. He must have come here looking for me. And when he found my room empty . . . Erin was the next door down.

“Why was she in your bed?” Joanna asks, cutting through Carrie’s soft whimpers.

“I don’t know.”

It’s not hot enough that Erin would have gone in there to sleep. Shaw must have carried her in there, before or after he . . . did whatever the fuck else he did to her.

“Did any of you hear anything?” I ask the others, not meeting Joanna’s eyes even though her room is right next to Erin’s.

“I heard a thud,” Carrie says, miserably. “But I didn’t know—everybody’s so loud all the time. I didn’t think anything of it, I just went back to sleep.”

She dissolves into sobs again, huddled up against Peter’s shoulder. She’s getting snot all over his sleeve, but Peter just pulls her closer, cradling the back of her head with his hand.

“What about you?” Heinrich says to Joanna.

“I had my earplugs in,” Joanna says, irritably. She’s always irritable when she’s upset, choosing anger over vulnerability. It’s why nobody fucks with her.

“Where wereyou?”Melody demands of me.

Melody is the newest roommate, and I don’t know her as well as the others. She’s skinny and pinched-looking, her short black hair sticking up in all directions, and her slippers slapping against the linoleum as she resumes her pacing.

I don’t know if she meant to sound accusing, but now she, Joanna, Frank, and Heinrich are all staring at me.

“I was at Cole Blackwell’s studio,” I admit.

“All night?” Melody persists, her head jerking toward me like a bird trained on a worm.

“Yes,” I say, stiffly. “All night.”

Usually this would stir up a barrage of intrusive questions from Frank. Only this level of awfulness could keep him quiet.

Our last two roommates, Joss and Brinley, come stumbling down the stairs, blinking sleepily. The sisters are wearing matching robes, equally battered and equally full of holes.

“What’s going on?” Joss asks.

“How come there’s water dripping into our room?” Brinley says.

Before anyone can answer, two cruisers pull up in front of our house, followed by an ambulance. The lights are on but no sirens announced their arrival.

“What the hell?” Joss says.

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