Page 75 of There Are No Saints

The thought is so enraging that I have to put my hands on my knees and lean over for a moment, breathing heavily.

No. She wouldn’t do that. She only fucked him to get back at me. Because she knew I was watching.

That’s what I want to believe. But I have to know for certain.

I pull out my phone, accessing Mara’s social media once again.

By now, I know every photograph, every caption. I have them all committed to memory. And I think . . . possibly . . . I’ve seen that guy before.

I scroll through the images, searching.

At last I find it: a post from the day Mara got the tattoo of a snake on her ribs. There he is, standing right next to her, latex gloves on his hands.

Logan hooked me up today—finallygot my little hiss.

I touchmy finger to his name, switching over to his profile.

Logan Mickelson, Paint It Black tattoo parlor.

Found you, motherfucker.

The parlor is only twelve blocks from the park. I walk over, instinctively avoiding any record of where I’m going. Leaving my options open to deal with Logan as I see fit.

This is the wrong time of day for an acquisition. I’d be better off coming in the evening, when he’s likely to be working alone, finishing up his last client of the day. I could pose as a walk-in. After checking the building for cameras, of course.

But I’m impatient.

I don’t want to wait until tonight.

I want to know the precise nature of this bastard’s relationship with Mara. Right now.

I wait around the back of the building. He’ll come out for a smoke. These fuckers always smoke.

Sure enough, after nearly an hour of patient watching, he shoves his way through the back door, already sparking up, hand cupped around his mouth to protect against the wind blowing gusts of dry leaves down the alleyway.

I have him up against the wall, forearm against his throat before he’s drawn a single breath of smoke into his lungs.

He goes still, not fighting, not struggling. Looking at my face with as much curiosity as fear.

“Oh, shit,” he says. “I know you.”

I’m becoming entirely too recognizable in this town.

“Then I’m sure you can guess why I’m here.”

It still takes him a second to put it together.

“Mara,” he says.

“That’s right,” I hiss. “Mara.”

“Sorry dude, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend . . .”

I could cheerfully decapitate him just for that comment.

“I’m no one’s fuckingboyfriend,”I snarl. “She belongs to me, she’s my property. And you put your disgusting inky hands all over something I own. What do you think I should do about that, Logan?”

The sound of his own name is the alarm that alerts Logan to the fact that I’m not here to have a pleasant conversation. The continued existence of that name is a fine thread upon which my arm against his throat operates like a sharp set of shears.

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