Page 76 of There Are No Saints

He cuts the bullshit immediately.

“I barely know her. I don’t even have her phone number.”

“You tattooed her, though.”

“Yeah—that’s how we met. I did a grim reaper for her roommate. She asked if I’d do the snake. It was her own design—she drew it.”

“What other tattoos have you done for her?”

“None. It was just the one.”

I ease the pressure off his throat. Slightly.

He isn’t stupid enough to think that’s the end of it. He looks into my eyes, into those black pits that could never be filled by apologies alone.

“Is there . . . anything else?”

“Yeah. Where’s your tattoo gun?”

* * *

22

Mara

Iconsidered giving Cole a couple of days to cool off.

I could avoid him reasonably well—sleeping over at a friend’s house. Not coming into the studio to work.

But the effort would be pointless.

Cole ain’t ever cooling off. I’m not stupid enough to think that a couple of days apart is going to ease his fury at what I did. Not after I literally hung a reminder on his wall.

Besides, I want to work. I don’t want to take a week off from painting, or even a single day.

Which is why I find myself back at the studio a little before midnight, praying that Cole might possibly be asleep and not angry enough to haul himself out of bed to mete out what’s coming to me.

Janice isn’t at her desk. The building has a roaming security guard at night, but I suspect he spends most of his time walking as slowly as possible so he only has to make a few rounds before his shift ends.

The odd silence of the usually bustling space puts me on edge as I climb the stairs to the fourth floor.

I didn’t used to be a jumpy person.

Getting snatched by a monster straight out of a nightmare changed that forever.

I’ll never forget that dark figure hurtling toward me. Somehow that was the worst part: realizing that the things you fear are very much real. And they’re coming for you.

Cole asked me why I kept the piercings. I told myself that I was doing it for me—an act of defiance.

But Cole is right.

I like the reminder. I need it.

So I never get too comfortable again.

Sometimes I think it was Cole who kidnapped me. Sometimes I feel sure it wasn’t.

Nothing about that night makes sense to me. It feels like one of those perspective paintings, where if you look from the wrong angle, it’s just a jumble of shapes and lines. But if you move to the right point in the room, the shapes align and you can see the image clear as day. I could see exactly what happened . . . if I just knew where to stand.

---