Page 72 of There Are No Saints

Riding the last waves of malice, I took an Uber home. The driver didn’t want to let me in the car when he saw the amount of paint still remaining on my arms and legs and hair.

“It’s already dry,” I said crossly.

“Sit on this,” he ordered, throwing a garbage bag into the back seat.

“Fine,” I sighed, seating myself on the slippery plastic and leaning my head against the window in utter exhaustion.

By the time I got back to my house, the manic high I’d been riding had almost entirely dissipated. I was starting to realize the level offuck youI’d thrown in Cole’s direction.

And look, he definitely deserved it. Trying to make me suck off that dealer was degrading and outrageous.

But I took it to the next level. I gave him both middle fingers, right to camera.

And I’m starting to think that was a huge mistake.

Cole Blackwell is not somebody you want to fuck with.

I should know that better than anyone.

He is neither reasonable nor forgiving.

And he’s gonna make me pay for this, I know it.

* * *

After a few fitfulhours of sleep, I stumble downstairs.

My roommates are gathered around the table, looking at Erin’s phone. The mood in the kitchen is strangely somber. Heinrich and Frank are staring at the screen while Erin slowly scrolls. Joanna stands over by the sink, arms crossed over her chest, looking faintly nauseated.

“What’s going on?” I ask them.

“They found another body,” Heinrich says.

“Another girl,” Erin clarifies.

A hook lodges in my stomach, reeling me slowly toward the phone. I bend over the screen, my head between Frank’s and Heinrich’s.

The images are gory and graphic—a headless torso with its breasts torn off. Scattered limbs. A severed foot still wearing a high-heeled shoe.

“What the fuck!” I cry. “That’s on the news?”

“It’s not the news,” Joanna says disgustedly, from the sink. “It’s that true crime site. They must have bought the pics from one of the cops.”

“I don’t want to look at that,” I say, backing away.

My stomach is rolling.

The girl was slim, with a tattoo of a pheonix on her ribs. I have a tattoo in that exact same place. Without her head . . . she could well be me.

“None of us should look at it,” Joanna snaps. “It’s disrespectful. I hope they find whoever leaked those pics and fire his ass.”

“I’m not gawking,” Erin says. “They found her right over on the Lincoln Park golf course. That’s only a couple miles from here! This psycho could live right by us.”

My stomach is now doing the death roll of a crocodile.

Cole lives in Sea Cliff. He golfs on that course.

“When did she die?” I ask.

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