Page 104 of There Are No Saints

The closest building is fifteen feet away. The gap between plunges down twelve stories to a bare concrete alley. Not even a fucking dumpster waits below to break my fall.

Fifteen feet.

If it were ten, I could jump it.

Fifteen is dicey.

The next building over is slightly lower—that could help.

Through the broken window, I hear the cops ascending to the room. Discovering the body of the girl. Fanning out, searching for me.

I’ve got seconds at most.

I back up to the far side of the building and then I sprint toward the ledge. I run as hard and as fast as I can, launching myself into space.

I fall forward and down, arms stretched out in front of me. When my feet hit, I tuck into a roll and tumble across the roof, coming to a stop flat on my back.

Not fucking far enough. I hear sirens, cop cars pulling up on both sides. They’ll be spread across the area in moments.

No time for strategy or planning. I leap to my feet and sprint again, running for the next building in the row.

Run, run, run, run . . . JUMP!

The third building is lower still, by two stories.

I crash down hard, my right ankle buckling beneath me. It twists and I hear an awful popping sound. Hot, electric pain shoots up the outside of my leg.

Forcing myself up anyway, I hobble to the edge of the building. This one has a fire escape still in place, running from roof to ground level. Using the railings as a crutch, I limp down as fast as I can, cursing my ankle, cursing that I’ve put myself in this fucking ludicrous position.

Outsmarted by Shaw . . . what a fucking humiliation. I should let the cops put me out of my misery.

Hitting the ground, I limp through the sickening pain, driven on by pure rage, by the desire to live through this so I can wreak my revenge on Shaw, so I can make him pay for this.

This is his fault.

His and Mara’s.

* * *

It takesover two hours to shake off the cops and return to Seacliff. Some of that time is me hiding in a filthy alleyway, crouching under a pile of moldering trash bags, ankle too swollen to run another step.

The ignominy of this is almost too much to bear.

I spend every second imagining how I’m going to peel the skin off Shaw’s flesh, inch by inch. Death will be a mercy for which he will beg, hour after hour.

I’ve never been so relieved to walk through my own front door.

The next hour is me standing under a boiling shower spray, scrubbing my own skin as if I, too, should be flayed.

After that, the thinking begins.

I’ll kill Shaw, that much is certain.

But how the FUCK am I going to do that when I’m already injured? Even at my peak, Shaw is more than a physical match for me. I’m smarter, but he’s bigger.

He knows I’m coming, too. He’ll be watching for me. Waiting.

In the meantime, Mara remains a constant point of vulnerability.

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