Page 108 of There Are No Saints

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I already know it’s Cole.

He’s been stalking me all week. I’ve seen him on the street outside my house, and at the cafe across from Sweet Maple. He knows I’ve seen him, and he doesn’t care. He hasn’t tried to bang on my door or force me to eat brunch with him again.

He’s just watching. Waiting.

Standing guard.

That chill now runs from the nape of my neck all the way down my spine.

I finally understand.

Cole’s not watchingme.He’s watching for Shaw.

Stay away from him. He’s dangerous. I’m not fucking joking.

It’s too dark to see the details of Cole’s face, not with the rain plastering his hair down over his eyes.

He can see me, though. Brightly lit, clean, and dry, framed in this window.

I press my palm flat against the glass.

How can I be so afraid of someone, and yet I can’t bring myself to run? I don’t want to run from Cole. I want to stand still while he comes to me, and then I want to reach up and touch his face. I want to pull off the masks, one by one, until there isn’t any left. And then, whatever is underneath . . . I want to see it.

He terrified me, the night of the Halloween party. He did it on purpose. Deliberately flashing his fangs, because he wanted to scare me away from Shaw.

Why?

Because he wants to keep me safe.

No matter how insane that sounds, it’s what I believe.

Cole wants to keep me safe. It’s why he’s spent countless hours watching me, when he has the whole city at his disposal, when he could be doing anything else.

I walk back to the dryers, checking the remaining time.

Twelve minutes.

I lean against the glass, eyes closed, my whole body rocked by the hulking industrial machine. These dryers are probably older than I am. Each one the size of a compact car. Each with a powerful engine.

The bell above the door lets out a gentle chime as someone enters.

I keep my face pressed against the glass, eyes closed.

I hear him coming up behind me, though no one else would hear those careful, measured steps.

I can even hear the lonely sound of each breath entering and exiting his lungs.

Without turning around, I say, “Hello, Cole.”

In the glass I see his reflection: wet hair, blacker than a crow’s wing, plastered against his cheeks. Dark eyes fixed only on me.

Rain drips down from the hem of his coat to the linoleum tiles.

“Hello, Mara.”

He swoops in behind me, pressing me against the dryer. His body is soaked and frigid, the hard muscle of his chest locked against my back. Against my belly, the dryer rocks and hums, spreading warmth all the way through me into Cole.

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