Page 107 of There Are No Saints

What happened that night never made any sense because I was too close to the picture. I could only see the tiny individual dots. Taking a step back, the whole image pulls into focus.

There were two psychopaths in the woods that night: Alastor and Cole.

Alastor brought me there.

Cole was supposed to kill me.

But he didn’t.

I fucking survived.

And the whole palaver afterward, myGreat Expectationsrise to success with my secret benefactor Cole working behind the scenes . . . what was that? Just more of their fucked up game?

I pace up and down the narrow aisle between the washing machines and the dryers, listening to my clothes rumbling away on both sides.

This all sounds insane.

But it’s the only thing that makes sense. The only thing that explains what I know I saw.

Two men.

Two psychopaths.

I stop dead where I stand.

I’ve seen all the indications with Cole. The way he swaps personas at will. The way he uses his money and influence to manipulate people . . . including me. The way he doesn’t truly care about anyone or anything.

That’s not true. He cares sometimes. He cared when he smashed that solar model.

I shake my head hard, irritated with myself.

Rage isn’t the same thing as “caring.”

My chest is tight and it’s hard to draw a full breath.

I keep thinking about the girl’s body found on the golf course. And the others on the beach . . .

How many has it been now? Six? Seven?

The Beast of the Bay.

I told myself that had nothing to do with me. I was cut, but not torn apart. Not actually killed.

Now I think I was supposed to be.

Is Alastor the Beast? Is Cole?

Is it both of them?

The rain pours down harder, individual droplets disappearing into the steady fall. The rain shatters in the street, sending up silvery splashes that gleam like sparks.

I’ve reached the end of the aisle, where the plate-glass window is covered in the ancient, peeling decals that once proclaimed,Suds Your Duds, Coin-Operated, 24-Hour Self-Serve.

Through those blistered letters I see a figure waiting outside. Tall and dark, without any umbrella. Standing still on the sidewalk, looking directly at me.

High Enough —K.Flay

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