There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet)

Cole drives me home early in the morning. I’m planning to catch a couple hours’ sleep, then head over to the studio to work.

The intimacy between us is fragile but real, like a thin rim of ice across a lake. I don’t know if it’s strong enough to bear weight just yet . . . but I’m already walking across.

He pulls up to the curb, flipping the car around so I can exit on the passenger side.

“Well, thanks for . . . whatever that was,” I say, half smiling, half blushing.

I touch the handle of the door, planning to climb out.

“Wait,” Cole says, grabbing me by the back of the neck and pulling me back inside instead. He kisses me, deep and warm, with just a hint of a bite as his teeth catch my lower lip, before releasing me.

The kiss makes my head spin. His scent clings to my clothes: steel shavings, machine oil, cold Riesling, expensive cologne. And Cole himself. The man and the monster. Layered together like sediment, like cake.

“I’ll see you later,” I say, breathlessly.

“I’ll definitely see you,” Cole says, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Knowing that he watches me on that studio camera gives me a perverse thrill. I wonder what he’ll do if I slowly strip off my clothes while I’m working. If I paint completely naked. Will he come join me?

I’m floating up the sagging steps to the row house.

It’s so early that I don’t hear a single person creaking around on the upper floors. No scent of burning coffee just yet.

That’s fine—I’m too tired to chat. I can barely haul myself up the next two flights of steps to my attic room. I might need to sleep more than a couple of hours. My body is so obliterated that the thought of my mattress and pillow has become intensely erotic.

I grasp the ancient brass handle and give it a twist. It slips through my hand, stiff and unyielding.

“What the fuck,” I mutter, turning it again.

The door’s locked. From the inside.

In my sleep-befuddled brain, all I can think is that accidentally I locked it on my way out, or the handle is broken. Everything in this house is so decrepit that the shower, the furnace, the outlets, and the stove are constantly going on the fritz. We’ve long since learned not to bother trying to call our landlord. Either Heinrich fixes what breaks, or we just live with it.

In this case, I might be able to fix it myself.

Poking the edge of my thumbnail into the lock, I jiggle the handle until I hear the tumblers click.

“Yes,” I hiss, pushing the door open with a mournful creak.

I’m hurrying in, anticipating the long fall onto the mattress, until something stops me short.

The bed is already occupied.

Not just occupied—drenched. The sheets, blankets, and mattress are soaked and dripping. Water pools on the bare boards all around.

And there on the pillow . . . Erin. Red hair spread out in a halo, damp and wavy. Skin paler than milk. Flowers framing her face: green willow boughs, scarlet poppies, forget-me-nots as blue as her wide-open eyes.

I’m crossing the space, falling down beside her, feeling the water soak into my skirt as I lift her cold white hand.

I look down into her face, somehow believing that she can still see me, that I can bring her back if I keep calling out her name.

My shouts echo in the tiny space, but have no effect on her. No squeeze from her fingers. Not even a flutter of an eyelash.

She’s dead. Hours gone. Already beginning to stiffen.

I drop her hand, overwhelmed by its rubbery chill. It no longer feels like Erin, or anything attached to her.

“What’s going on?” someone says from the doorway. “Why are you yelling?”

I turn toward Joanna. She stands there in her pajamas, hair still wrapped up in her silk sleeping scarf. I’m grateful it’s her and not one of the others, because she keeps our house running, she always knows what to do.

Except right now.

Joanna gapes at Erin with the same stunned expression as me. She’s petrified in place, ten thousand years passing in an instant.

She doesn’t ask if Erin’s okay. She saw the truth sooner than I did. Or she was more willing to accept it.

Frank comes up behind her, unable to see because Joanna is blocking the doorway.

“What are you—” he starts, craning over her shoulder.

“Stay back,” Joanna barks. “We need to call the cops.”

I wait downstairs with the others, my whole body tense, waiting for the sound of sirens.

Carrie is huddled up with Peter, crying softly.

Frank thought we were playing a prank on him, and he wouldn’t go downstairs until we let him look inside the room. Now he’s sitting over against the window, his skin the color of cement, both hands pressed against his mouth.

Melody keeps pacing the room, until Heinrich snaps at her to stop.

None of us are talking. It might be shock, or it might be the same reason Joanna is staring at me from across the room, somber and silent.

They know this is my fault.

Nobody said it. But I can feel the tension, the glances in my direction.

I don’t need an accusation to feel guilty. Erin is dead because of me.

Shaw did it, I know it. He must have come here looking for me. And when he found my room empty . . . Erin was the next door down.

“Why was she in your bed?” Joanna asks, cutting through Carrie’s soft whimpers.

“I don’t know.”

It’s not hot enough that Erin would have gone in there to sleep. Shaw must have carried her in there, before or after he . . . did whatever the fuck else he did to her.

“Did any of you hear anything?” I ask the others, not meeting Joanna’s eyes even though her room is right next to Erin’s.

“I heard a thud,” Carrie says, miserably. “But I didn’t know—everybody’s so loud all the time. I didn’t think anything of it, I just went back to sleep.”

She dissolves into sobs again, huddled up against Peter’s shoulder. She’s getting snot all over his sleeve, but Peter just pulls her closer, cradling the back of her head with his hand.

“What about you?” Heinrich says to Joanna.

“I had my earplugs in,” Joanna says, irritably. She’s always irritable when she’s upset, choosing anger over vulnerability. It’s why nobody fucks with her.

“Where were you?” Melody demands of me.

Melody is the newest roommate, and I don’t know her as well as the others. She’s skinny and pinched-looking, her short black hair sticking up in all directions, and her slippers slapping against the linoleum as she resumes her pacing.

I don’t know if she meant to sound accusing, but now she, Joanna, Frank, and Heinrich are all staring at me.

“I was at Cole Blackwell’s studio,” I admit.

“All night?” Melody persists, her head jerking toward me like a bird trained on a worm.

“Yes,” I say, stiffly. “All night.”

Usually this would stir up a barrage of intrusive questions from Frank. Only this level of awfulness could keep him quiet.

Our last two roommates, Joss and Brinley, come stumbling down the stairs, blinking sleepily. The sisters are wearing matching robes, equally battered and equally full of holes.

“What’s going on?” Joss asks.

“How come there’s water dripping into our room?” Brinley says.

Before anyone can answer, two cruisers pull up in front of our house, followed by an ambulance. The lights are on but no sirens announced their arrival.

“What the hell?” Joss says.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see Cole’s name on the display.

I pick up, turning away from Joanna’s frown.

“Why are there cops at your house?” Cole demands.

I hurry out of the living room, phone pressed against my ear and voice lowered so the others won’t hear.

“How do you—”

“Never mind that. What are they doing there?”

“He killed Erin,” I whisper into the phone, my hand shaking as I try to press it close against my ear. “He killed her, Cole. In my fucking bed. I came home and I found her—”

“Who have you told?” Cole interrupts.

“I—what do you mean?”

“Don’t tell the cops anything,” Cole orders. “Not a fucking thing.”

“I have to tell them! He killed Erin. He killed all those other girls too, I’m sure of it.”

I’m hurrying deeper into the house, trying to prevent any of my roommates from overhearing, but already the cops are banging on the door. I’ve got to get back out there.

“They’re not going to be able to do anything,” Cole says. “You’ll only make it worse.”

“How can you possibly—”

“What are you doing?” Joanna says.

She’s followed me all the way back to the dining room. Her arms are folded over her chest and her eyes are narrowed, no hint of the usual friendliness between us.

I end the call abruptly, stuffing the phone back in my pocket.

“That was Cole,” I say.

Joanna jaw shifts, like she’s chewing on something I can’t see.

“The police are here,” she reminds me. “They’re going to want to talk to you.”

I follow her back out to the living room, my heart already racing. I’m sick and guilty. Cole said I should keep my mouth shut, but there’s no way I can do that. Erin is dead. Shaw killed her, I’m certain of it. He needs to be locked up, today, right this minute.

I follow Joanna back to the living room where two uniformed officers are already in the process of interviewing my roommates. Joss and Brinley are just now hearing that Erin’s body is upstairs. Joss keeps repeating, “Are you serious? You’re saying she’s dead?”, like she might not be hearing right. Brinley is hyperventilating.

The medics hustle up the stairs. They’re not going to be able to help Erin, but they’re probably checking to be sure. I remember the feeling of Erin’s cold, rubbery flesh, the stiffness of her joints, and my stomach does a slow, nauseating flip.

“Who found her?” one of the officers says.

“I did,” I pipe up, stepping forward.

The officer looks me over, quick and practiced. His placid face shows no reaction, but I’m certain he knows that I’m nervous, that I’m sweating, that I’m shaky with guilt and fear and absolute devastation.

“Do you know what happened to her?” he says.

“No,” I shake my head. “But I know who did it.”

Ten hours later, I’m stuck in an interrogation room down at the police station.

I’ve fallen asleep several times over the hours, so exhausted that no amount of stress, frustration, or burnt black coffee can keep me awake.

Every time I drift off, a cop comes barging into the room on some flimsy pretext, jolting me awake, and then leaves again. That’s how I know they’re watching me through the one-way glass, and how I know I’m definitely a suspect.

Officer Hawks has come back twice to ask me questions.

I’ve told him everything I know about Alastor Shaw, but nothing about Cole.

And I’m feeling pretty fucking shitty about that.

I told myself it’s irrelevant. Cole didn’t kill Erin. He was with me the whole time.

But he’s killed other people.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to block out the dreary interrogation room—the cold metal table, the depressing styrofoam cup of coffee, the greasy shine of the one-way mirror.

I don’t know if he has. I don’t know what he’s done.

Yes you do. He told you.

I remember Cole’s face the night of the Halloween party. How still it became, and how hard, each line carved into the flesh:

“I filet people with precision . . . he does what I do BADLY.”

Maybe he was trying to scare me.

He was definitely trying to scare me.

But that doesn’t mean he was lying . . .

So why did I go to his house last night? Why did I let him put his hands all over me? Why did I let him tie me down on his table?

Because he’s not a soulless monster, whatever he might pretend. I see much more than that inside of him.

Shaw on the other hand . . .

The door creaks open once more. It’s Hawks, his uniform looking decidedly less crisp than it did this morning, stubble shadowing his jawline.

He sits down across from me, placing a folder flat on the table between us.

“Did you find Shaw?” I demand.

“Yes, I found him,” Hawks says, calmly.

“And?”

I can barely keep still in my chair, from nerves and the effect of all that nasty double-brewed coffee. I’m tired and jittery, not a good combination.

“He recognized Erin once we showed him a picture. But he says he only knew her from a casual encounter six weeks ago. He says he hasn’t seen her since.”

“He’s lying!”

“He’s got an alibi,” Hawks says, flatly. “He was with a girl last night. We talked to her. “

“Then she’s lying too! Or she fell asleep, or . . . something,” I trail off weakly.

“Why are you so certain it’s him?” Hawks says, twirling his pen between his fingers.

Hawks is on the younger side of forty, with an athletic build, black-rimmed glasses, and meticulously-polished shoes. His tone is polite, but he doesn’t fool me for a second. I’ve spent enough time around Cole to know when I’m being tested.

Slowly, for what feels like the hundredth time, I repeat, “Because Shaw is the one who snatched me off the street six weeks ago. The exact fucking night we’re talking about—he fucked my roommate, and then he stole her ID and tracked me to my house.”

“I have the incident report here,” Hawks says, tapping his fingertips lightly on the folder.

Heat creeps up my neck, remembering the pouchy-eyed stare of Officer Fuckhead—his insulting questions, and the long silences after every answer.

“That cop was a troglodyte,” I spit. “I’m surprised he could type.”

Ignoring that, Hawks remarks, “It doesn’t say anything about Shaw in here.”

“That’s because I didn’t know it was him when I made the report.”

“Because you never actually saw him.”

My flush deepens.

“I didn’t see his face. But I saw how big he was. I felt it when he carried me. And I heard his voice.”

I add that last part desperately. I didn’t actually recognize Shaw’s voice at the time—he only said a few words, and his tone was flat, nothing like his usual charm. But I’ve seen how Cole can switch it on and off at will. I have no doubt that Shaw is just as proficient an actor.

“Officer Mickelsen had some doubts about your account of that evening,” Hawks says, taking off his glasses and polishing them carefully. Uncovered by the lenses, his blue eyes look reflective, not unlike the mirror. He can see out, but I can’t see in.

“He was an incompetent piece of shit,” I hiss, teeth bared.

“He thought you were making it up. He thought you did it to yourself.”

I want to rip up that folder and fling the pieces in Hawks’ face.

With great effort, I say, “Did you look at the pictures? Did you see this?”

I hold up my arm, yanking back the sleeve of my dress. Forcing him to look at the long, ugly scar running up my wrist, still red and raised, livid as a brand. “I didn’t do that to myself.”

Hawks examines my wrist, as if mentally comparing it to the photographs inside the folder. Unlike Officer Fuckhead, he doesn’t mention the other scars, the old ones, and for that I’m grateful.

“It must have taken a lot of grit to pick yourself up and get out to the road, with all the blood you lost,” he says.

His voice is soft and low, his expression gentle as he looks from my wrist to my face. He’s probably just buttering me up, trying to get me to lower my guard. Still, I can feel my shoulders relaxing from their hunched position.

“I got lucky,” I say. “If a car hadn’t come along to pick me up, I’d be dead.”

“And why is Erin dead?” Hawks presses. “Why would Shaw want to hurt your roommate?”

This is where we venture into dangerous territory.

I can’t talk about Shaw’s obsession with Cole. I shouldn’t talk about Cole at all.

Maybe it’s wrong for me to protect him, but I feel compelled to do it. I’ve told Cole things I’ve never told to anyone, and he’s done the same to me. Whatever secrets he’s shared, I’m not about to spill them to the cops.

It won’t help Erin either way.

“Shaw was hitting on me the night of the art show. Erin interrupted us. He attacked me later that night. I think he thought I was dead. When he saw me at a Halloween party, it fired him up again. He broke into my house, and since I wasn’t there, he killed Erin instead.”

“You were at your boyfriend’s house?” Hawks says.

Now I’m the color of a stoplight. Calling Cole my boyfriend feels wrong on all kinds of levels, but all I can do is nod.

“That’s right.”

“He’s outside right now, raising a ruckus,” Hawks says, watching my face to see my reaction.

Unfortunately for me, I have a shit poker face. I’m sure Hawks can tell exactly how much that surprises and pleases me.

“He is?”

“He’s threatening to call a whole team of lawyers if I don’t let you out.”

“I assume I can leave any time I want. I haven’t been put under arrest.”

“That’s right,” Hawks says. “So why haven’t you?”

“Because I care about Erin. She’s not just a roommate, she’s one of my best friends. And she was murdered in my fucking bed. It was my—” I swallow hard. “I feel responsible.”

“You want to help,” Hawks says, leaning forward across the table, his blue eyes fixed on mine.

I nod.

“Then tell me something . . .”

He opens the folder, taking out a photograph, sliding it across the table toward me.

The picture was taken from above, looking directly down at Erin. I’ve already seen everything it shows: her hands open on either side of her, palms up. The flowers scattered across her belly. Her red hair trailing like seaweed on the wet bed.

“Why was she killed like this, arranged like this?” Hawks points at the soaked bed. “Why was she drowned?”

“Drowned?” I say, blankly.

“That was the cause of death. Someone wedged a funnel in her mouth and poured water into her lungs until she suffocated.”

I shake my head slowly, staring at her pale, frightened face. The way she’s posed puzzles me as much as it did when I first found her. Erin looks completely unlike herself, face scrubbed of makeup, clad in an old-fashioned gown, silvery and beaded . . .

“That dress isn’t hers,” I say, frowning.

“Are you sure?”

“She wouldn’t wear something so . . .”

I trail off. Slowly, I turn the photograph so Erin is laying horizontally instead of vertically. I squint at the willow boughs, at the red poppies . . .

“What is it?” Hawkes says, sharply.

“It’s . . . a painting.”

“What do you mean?”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding, becoming more certain by the moment.

“He posed her like Ophelia.”

“Are you talking about Hamlet?”

“Yeah. John Everett Millais painted the scene where Ophelia drowns in a river. This is what she looks like,” I hold up the photograph. “Shaw recreated the painting.”

Hawkes takes the picture from me and examines it anew, his expression skeptical.

“I told you!” I insist. “Shaw’s an artist. He’d know that painting.”

“You’re all artists,” Hawks says, tucking the photograph back inside his folder. “You, Shaw, Erin . . . all your roommates.”

“Except Peter,” I amend.

“It doesn’t point the finger at Shaw,” Hawks says.

“Then what would?” I snap.

“Physical evidence.”

“He’s not stupid enough to leave evidence. You’ve never found evidence on any of the Beast’s victims.”

“You think Shaw’s the Beast of the Bay?” Now Hawks definitely thinks I’m grasping at straws. “The MO’s are completely different.”

“It’s Shaw,” I insist. “I’m telling you.”

Hawks sighs, pushing back his chair and standing up like his back hurts. He presses the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, then dons his glasses once more.

“Come on,” he says. “Before your boyfriend causes any more trouble.”

He leads me out of the interrogation room, down the warren of hallways that winds through the police station.

Several officers stare at me as we pass. Their expressions are suspicious and unfriendly—angry that Hawks is letting me go.

“About fucking time,” Cole barks, the moment he sees me.

A warm rush of relief washes over me at the sight of him. His tall, stark figure, terrifying under the wrong circumstances, seems incredibly reassuring when deployed on my behalf. It’s clear he’s been terrorizing the officers, raising hell until they let me out.

The balls on him to stride into a police station and start barking orders. I guess that’s what it’s like being rich and privileged: you never feel nervous, even when you’re guilty as sin.

I hurry over to Cole, letting him envelop me with his arm around my shoulders, shielding me from the glares of a dozen cops.

“Did they do anything to you?” he growls. “Did they hurt you? Harass you?”

“No,” I say. “Officer Hawks was perfectly polite.”

That only seems to harden Cole’s animosity. He pulls me tight against his side, glowering at Hawks.

“If you want to speak with her again, you can call my lawyer,” he says, flicking a business card disdainfully across the information desk.

Hawks watches the card land, but makes no move to pick it up. His cool blue eyes sweep over Cole just as they did to me, taking in every detail, missing nothing.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says.

Cole steers me out of the police station, out onto the street.

I’m shocked to see that it’s fully dark again, the whole day gone while I sat in that windowless room.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Cole demands, spinning me around so I have to look directly into his furious face.

“I had to tell them about Shaw!” I cry. “He killed Erin! He was probably there to kill me. She’s dead and it’s my fault.”

“And what good did it do?” Cole scoffs. “Did you see them leading him away in handcuffs?”

“No,” I admit.

“Of course not! It’s not his first fucking rodeo. Shaw is smart. He knows how to cover his tracks.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” I burst out.

Cole takes hold of my face with both hands. He tilts up my chin, making me look into his eyes.

“You’re going to do exactly what I say.”

I try to shake him off, but he’s too strong. My face burns everywhere his fingers touch the skin. I look into those deep, dark eyes that pin me in place, more powerful than his grip.

“You tried it your way,” Cole says. “Now it’s time to try mine.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re going to move into my house, tonight. I’ll send someone to pick up your things. You’re going to stay with me, right by my side, every fucking minute of the day so I can keep you safe. And when it’s time to deal with Shaw . . . that’ll be my way, too.”

“You want me to move in with you? That’s insane.”

“Do you want to stay alive? Or do you want to become Shaw’s next painting?”

“Don’t joke about that,” I snarl. “Don’t talk about Erin that way.”

“It’s no fucking joke. And it’s no game. You pull another one of your stunts running off without me, and Shaw will gut you like a fish. I’m the only one who can protect you. Unless you want to take a chance on Officer Hawks,” Cole sneers.

I take a deep breath, considering my options.

They’re few in number, and unattractive to me.

What am I supposed to do, go home to the Victorian, avoid Joanna, sleep in the room where Erin was killed? Hope Shaw waits a few days before he comes back to finish the job?

On the other hand . . .

I saw Cole’s face when he strapped me down to that table. When he took control of my body, until I couldn’t think or even breathe, until he wrenched my deepest secrets out of me and I was limp and helpless, begging for more…

We won’t be roommates.

More like teacher and student.

Mentor and protégé.

Sculptor and clay.

The breath comes out in a long sigh, a silvery plume in the cold night, my soul exiting my body.

Cole stands still, waiting for me to decide.

Clenching my fists at my sides, I say, “I guess I don’t have any choice.”

Cole smiles, his teeth gleaming in the dark.

“Don’t you ever believe that, Mara. This is what gives us power: we always have a choice.”

He holds out his hand to me, palm upward, his long, slim fingers pale in the moonlight.

“It’s time to make yours. What will it be?”

I take his hand, his fingers closing around mine.

“Take me home.”