He does what I do BADLY . . .
Jokes and threats? Manipulation?
Or the pure, unvarnished truth?
Cole implied that Alastor Shaw is a killer.
More than implied that he’s one, too.
He does what I do BADLY . . .
It seems impossible.
We’re talking about two of the most famous men in the city. Artists, for fuck’s sake.
Rival artists.
Or perhaps . . . just rivals.
You were given to me . . .
I jolt up from the dryer, the warmth of the tumbling clothes giving way to the chill that grips the back of my neck.
Two men. One heavy and rough. One slim, light, almost silent . . .
Convulsively, I clasp my palm over the wriggling scar running up my left wrist. I can feel it under my thumb, thick and hot as a snake.
I spoke to Alastor Shaw the night I was kidnapped. I met him at the show, before I went outside to vape with Frank. We only talked for a minute before Erin interrupted us.
Erin said she fucked him in the stairwell. How long did that take? Quick enough that he could have seen me leaving? Quick enough that he could have followed?
It only lasted a minute. But it was nice . . .
The pieces are falling into place with sickening speed.
He could have snatched me up a block from my house. Stuffed me in a trunk. Bound, blindfolded, and pierced me, then slashed me open and left me on the ground to die . . .
No. Not to die.
Left . . . as a gift.
A gift for the man who would follow.
Where was Cole going that night? What was he doing?
It doesn’t matter. Someone knew he’d be there. They knew he’d find me.
And what was the point? What did they expect?
My heart is racing, the steady whum, whum, whum of the dryer like a crank operating my brain. Forcing it to keep running. Shoving it toward the inevitable conclusion of these thoughts.
They expected Cole to finish me off.
That was the gift.
That was the temptation.
BUZZZZZZZZ.
The alarm to the dryer sounds, making me shriek.
The little Asian grandma pops up like a jack-in-the-box, bustling over to retrieve her socks. She bundles them all into a string bag, then slings the bag over her shoulder, heading toward the door, waving to me as she leaves.
I wave back, feeling like I’m floating, feeling like I’m one of the many pieces of trash running down the gutters outside, carried away by the rain.
What happened that night never made any sense because I was too close to the picture. I could only see the tiny individual dots. Taking a step back, the whole image pulls into focus.
There were two psychopaths in the woods that night: Alastor and Cole.
Alastor brought me there.
Cole was supposed to kill me.
But he didn’t.
I fucking survived.
And the whole palaver afterward, my Great Expectations rise to success with my secret benefactor Cole working behind the scenes . . . what was that? Just more of their fucked up game?
I pace up and down the narrow aisle between the washing machines and the dryers, listening to my clothes rumbling away on both sides.
This all sounds insane.
But it’s the only thing that makes sense. The only thing that explains what I know I saw.
Two men.
Two psychopaths.
I stop dead where I stand.
I’ve seen all the indications with Cole. The way he swaps personas at will. The way he uses his money and influence to manipulate people . . . including me. The way he doesn’t truly care about anyone or anything.
That’s not true. He cares sometimes. He cared when he smashed that solar model.
I shake my head hard, irritated with myself.
Rage isn’t the same thing as “caring.”
My chest is tight and it’s hard to draw a full breath.
I keep thinking about the girl’s body found on the golf course. And the others on the beach . . .
How many has it been now? Six? Seven?
The Beast of the Bay.
I told myself that had nothing to do with me. I was cut, but not torn apart. Not actually killed.
Now I think I was supposed to be.
Is Alastor the Beast? Is Cole?
Is it both of them?
The rain pours down harder, individual droplets disappearing into the steady fall. The rain shatters in the street, sending up silvery splashes that gleam like sparks.
I’ve reached the end of the aisle, where the plate-glass window is covered in the ancient, peeling decals that once proclaimed, Suds Your Duds, Coin-Operated, 24-Hour Self-Serve.
Through those blistered letters I see a figure waiting outside. Tall and dark, without any umbrella. Standing still on the sidewalk, looking directly at me.
High Enough — K.Flay Spotify → geni.us/no-saints-spotify