Page 105 of There Are No Saints

Shaw’s primary goal will be to kill her.

He’s jealous of me. Fixated on me. He knows I want her—which means he wants her more.

Taking her from me will be a greater triumph than putting a knife in my heart.

I can’t possibly keep her safe. Not for any significant length of time.

Mara weakens me. It was chasing after Shaw on impulse, believing I had to act quickly to protect her, that put me in this position. Now my ankle is puffed up like a snakebite and I can barely stand.

Worse, she weakens my mind. My decision-making. She warps my goals and values, making me think I care about things I never gave a fuck about before.

I can’t protect her. Her death is inevitable.

But I’ll be damned if Shaw is the one to do it.

Mara belongs to me.

I’m the only one who gets to kill her.

* * *

28

Mara

Rain thunders down outside the laundromat, drumming on the roof.

It’s late on a Sunday night. Most everyone who had laundry to do finished hours ago. Only one load remains rotating next to mine: a jumble of dingy gray socks, which I assume belong to the tiny Asian grandmother asleep against the vending machines.

I’d rather not be doing laundry either, but it’s been weeks since I stopped wearing underwear, and I’m down to my last t-shirt, emblazoned with a graphic print of Mia Wallace, complete with bloody nose. Joanna makes movie t-shirts for spare cash on the side. She’s so good at it that she could probably afford to rent a room in a much nicer place. I think she stays because she worries we’d burn the place down without her. Or at least, Heinrich would.

Under the t-shirt, I’m wearing floral boxer shorts, striped hockey socks, and a pair of battered flip-flops. It’s not my greatest look, but the sleepy grandma doesn’t seem to mind.

I lean against the dryer, watching my darks tumble around and around. The motion is soothing. Even better, the warmth of the dryer seeps into my body, loosening the stiff muscles of my chest, making me melt against the convex glass.

I’m trying to decide what the fuck to do about Cole.

I can’t keep avoiding him.

I’m itching to get back to my painting, back to that gorgeous studio that acts like creative catnip, whipping me into a frenzy as soon as I step foot through the door.

Or maybe it’s Cole who puts me in a frenzy.

I’ve never had as many ideas in a year as I now seem to get in a week. Even in my sleep, I see streams of layered images, colors so rich you could eat them, textures that make you want to roll them across your skin . . .

I know exactly what I need to do to finish my devil.

But to do it, I’ll have to walk through Cole’s door.

I don’t think we’re playing a game anymore.

I filet people with precision . . .

He does what I do BADLY . . .

Jokes and threats? Manipulation?

Or the pure, unvarnished truth?

---