Page 51 of There Are No Saints

“Sure.” I nod.

I don’t believe a word she’s saying. Cole owns this building, and those cameras are there for a reason.

“I have good news for you,” Sonia says.

“You do?” I say, still thinking about the camera.

“The guild reviewed all the applications . . . you’ve been chosen for the grant!”

I stare at her, dumbfounded.

“Are you serious?”

“Completely.” She passes me a slim envelope with my name neatly typed on the label. “That’s your check. And you’ll be showing at New Voices in a couple of weeks!”

I clutch the envelope, stunned. “I’m starting to feel like you’re my fairy godmother, Sonia.”

She laughs. “Better than a wicked stepmother.”

She strides away cheerfully, heading up toward her office.

I open the envelope and take out the check, which has my full name on it, made out for two thousand dollars, right there in black and white.

What the fuck is going on?

There’s no way I should have gotten that grant after confronting Blackwell. In fact, I expected Sonia to tell me to pack my shit and get out.

Instead, she handed me a check.

Which means Blackwell is doing me another favor.

Favors ALWAYS come with strings.

What the fuck does he want?

I hurry home so I can shower and change before my shift. Already my tiny room feels cramped and dingy compared to the luxurious studio space. My roommates pepper me with questions as I stuff my face with a hasty piece of toast.

“You met Blackwell?” Erin says. “What was he like?”

“A dick,” I mumble around the toast. “Just like Joanna said.”

“What did you talk about?” Frank demands.

They’re all wide-eyed and eager, thinking we discussed color theory or our greatest influences.

I’d like to tell them exactly what went down. But I find myself hesitating, remembering Cole’s threat.No one will believe you . . . you’ll only look more unstable.

These are my best friends. I should be able to tell them exactly what happened.

But I find myself stammering and twisting in my seat, unable to meet their eyes.

I’ve had a long and ugly history of people not believing me. Stories twisted, facts changed, people who weren’t what they seemed to be.

It really starts to fuck with your sense of reality. Every time someone tells you that you’re wrong, it didn’t happen like you said it happened, it couldn’t, you’re a liar, you’re a child, you don’t understand . . .

Each hack of the hatchet takes a chunk out of your confidence, until you don’t even believe yourself anymore.

“We talked about a grant,” I say, shoving the check across the table at Joanna. “I’ll sign that over to you—I know I owe you for this month’s rent and last.”

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