Chapter 1 The Bar Where the Saints Don’t Sing
Chapter one
The Bar Where the Saints Don’t Sing
The bag rips before I even make it to the corner.
Cheap plastic. A can of soup thuds against my shin, rolling into the gutter. I don’t stop to grab it.
My hands are full—cereal, apples, more soup, ramen, a half-dead banana bunch. Enough to fake the illusion of stability, to convince myself I’m still human.
I’ve been sleeping in motels that smell like wet towels and old secrets. I don’t stay longer than two nights in the same place. This part of the city doesn’t have much, just liquor stores, boarded windows, and streetlamps that flicker like they’re warning me away.
I walk fast. Head down. Shoulders squared. No makeup, no perfume, no visible fear.
It’s been a few weeks since court, and still I see his car everywhere. The black truck at the gas station. The shadow behind me in the convenience store window. The man in the baseball cap who turns away just as I look up.
Maybe it's paranoia. Maybe the judge was right—maybe I am the dramatic woman my mother described, seeing threats in every corner. But the wet toothbrush hadn't been paranoia. The camera hadn't been paranoia.
And still—I see the truck before I hear it.
His truck.
Black, dented on the passenger side, with the left headlight out. A dull purr, like it’s laughing under its breath.
Warren.
My blood goes ice cold. Every cell in my body screams run, but I don’t want to drop the bags. I don’t want to look like prey.
I walk faster.
The truck matches pace.
Panic hits me like a closed fist to the sternum. Sudden. Brutal. Unforgiving.
I cut across the street, between two buildings, into an alley that reeks of piss and burnt oil. My boots slap against the wet concrete. The groceries tumble from my arms—cereal crushed, apples rolling, a bottle of water bursting open.
I don’t stop.
My fingers close around the Glock’s grip, the polymer warm from my skin while the steel slide still holds the night’s cold, a promise of violence.
A rusted metal door looms ahead. No sign. No lights. I grab the handle, twist—
It opens.
And I crash straight into him.
Tall. Solid. Buzz cut. Ink up his throat and across his knuckles. He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t flinch. Just is.
His hands go to my arms, steady, not gripping. He doesn’t touch like a threat. He touches like a doorframe—something to hold on to when the wind gets mean.
“You okay?” His voice is low. Rough velvet and smoke.
I shake my head, breathless.
“You being followed?”
I nod once, sharply.
He glances past me, then back. Eyes dark. Calculating. Dangerous.
“Stay low.”
He doesn’t wait for questions. Doesn’t need my name.
He moves behind the bar like it’s muscle memory and nods to the dark, narrow space beneath the counter.
I crawl in. Curl up. Knees to chest. The scent of stale beer, wood polish, and something sweeter, bourbon maybe, wraps around me like a wet blanket.
The door opens.
The bell chimes.
And then—
His voice.
“One beer. Cold.”
It’s him. Warren. He’s here.
“You got it,” the man says, calm as sin.
I press my hands to my mouth to keep from shaking. The cross I wear like armor digs into my ribs.
The bartender pours the beer like he’s done it a thousand times. Like the devil himself isn’t ten feet away ordering a drink while I suffocate beneath the floorboards.
Warren doesn’t say anything else.
He sips.
And waits.
Minutes turn to hours. The jukebox plays something slow and broken. A woman singing like her heart’s still bleeding. The other patrons leave. Chairs stack. Lights dim.
Still, Warren stays.
And still, the bartender says nothing.
Midnight hits.
The man grabs a rag and wipes the counter.
“We’re closed.”
Warren drains his glass. Sets it down gently.
Leaves cash.
Walks out like the entire night wasn’t a goddamn siege.
The man locks the door behind him. Deadbolt clicks like a gun cocking.
Then silence.
He kneels beside the bar. Doesn’t speak until I look at him.
“You can come out now.”
I don’t move. Can’t.
My voice scrapes up from somewhere raw. “He knew I was here.”
The man's eyes narrow, dark brows drawing together. "Maybe. Maybe not." He extends a hand toward me, palm up. Not demanding, just offering. "Either way, he's gone now."
I stare at his hand, unable to make myself reach for it. My muscles have locked, frozen in the crouch I'd maintained for what felt like hours. The floor beneath me is sticky with spilled beer, and my back screams from being hunched in the cramped space.
"I'm Cain," he says, voice still low. "This is my place."
I swallow, throat clicking dry. "Magdalena."
"You want some water, Magdalena?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. My legs shake as I unfold from the cramped space, joints protesting.
The world tilts slightly when I stand—too much adrenaline, not enough food today.
Cain moves behind the bar with practiced efficiency, filling a glass with ice water.
The sound of cubes clinking against glass seems impossibly loud in the empty bar.
He slides the water across the scarred wooden surface. I drink it too fast, the cold shocking my system, making my teeth ache.
"How long has he been following you?" Cain asks, wiping down glasses with methodical precision.
"Months." The word comes out hoarse. "I had a restraining order, but the judge…" I trail off, unable to finish the sentence. Unable to admit how completely the system had failed me.
Cain's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "And the cops won't help."
It's not a question. He knows. There's something in his eyes—recognition, maybe. Like he's seen this story play out before.
"They took reports," I whisper. "That's all."
My hands won't stop trembling. I set the glass down before I drop it, water sloshing over the rim. The bar is dimly lit, just a few amber lights glowing behind rows of bottles. Shadows pool in the corners like secrets.
"Your groceries," Cain says, reaching beneath the counter and producing a plastic bag. "I can't replace everything, but there's some food here. Sandwich, chips, fruit."
I stare at the bag. Such a simple kindness shouldn't make my throat close up, but it does.
"Thank you." The words come out barely audible. I reach for the bag with unsteady hands. "I should go."
"Where?" Cain's question stops me cold. He doesn't press when I don't answer, just continues wiping down the bar, giving me space to think.
The truth is, I have nowhere to go. My motel room is six blocks away, and Warren's truck is out there somewhere. The thought of walking those dark streets makes my chest constrict.
"I don't know," I finally admit, the words tasting like surrender on my tongue.
Cain studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "I live upstairs. You can stay tonight. Head out in the morning when it's safer."
I hesitate, weighing the risk of trusting a stranger versus facing Warren again in the dark.
"I don't—" I start, but my protests die in my throat as headlights sweep across the front windows of the bar. My heart lurches. "Is there another way up?"
Cain nods, immediately understanding. "Behind the kitchen. Follow me."
He leads me through a swinging door into a cramped kitchen that smells of grease and bleach. Past stainless steel counters and a dishwasher, there's a narrow door I wouldn't have noticed on my own. Cain unlocks it with a key from his pocket, revealing a steep staircase.
"This goes straight up to my place," he explains, stepping aside to let me go first.
I clutch the plastic bag of food to my chest and start climbing. The stairwell is narrow but clean, lit by a single bulb.
At the top, Cain unlocks another door. The apartment is small but tidy—an open space with a kitchenette along one wall, a worn leather couch, and a hallway that likely leads to a bedroom. The windows are covered with heavy blackout curtains.
I step inside, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The adrenaline crash hits all at once. My legs feel like water, my hands trembling violently as I set the bag on the nearest surface, a coffee table scarred with water rings.
"Hey," Cain says, his voice gentler than before. "Easy, rabbit. You're safe now."
The nickname startles me enough that I meet his eyes.
"Rabbit?" My voice wavers.
His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “The way you're shaking. Like a little rabbit that's been running from wolves all night.”
I manage a weak smile at that. "Not sure I like being compared to prey."
"Not prey. Survivors." Cain jerks his head toward the hallway. "Come on."
I follow him past a small bathroom with chipped tile and a medicine cabinet missing its mirror. He stops at a door, pushes it open, and flicks on a light.
"Guest room," he says, stepping aside.
The space is sparse but clean—a twin bed with gray sheets, a nightstand with a lamp, and a small dresser. No decorations on the walls, no clutter. Just the essentials.
"Bathroom's across the hall," Cain explains. "Lock's broken, but I'll stay out of your way." He points to a door at the end of the hallway. "That's my room. I'll be there if you need anything."
I step inside the guest room, suddenly unable to take another step.
The reality of the situation hits me. I’m in a stranger's apartment, a man I'd known for less than a few hours, hiding from another man who'd been hunting me for months.
The absurdity of it all makes me want to laugh, but I know if I start, I might not stop.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice small in the quiet room. "I don't… I don't usually do this."
Cain nods once, understanding in his eyes. "Neither do I."
I shut the door behind him; the soft click was somehow final in the quiet apartment. The guest room feels like a confessional booth—small, anonymous, safe but temporary.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands clasping and unclasping in my lap.
My right leg bounces like it has its own heartbeat.
I can't settle, can't calm the electricity running through my nerves.
Every sound makes me flinch—the building's pipes groaning, footsteps from the apartment above, a distant car horn.
The window. I haven't checked the window.
I'm across the room in three steps, fingers fumbling with the lock. It's old but solid. I twist it twice to be sure, then tug on the frame. Secure. The curtains are thin, though. I can see the outline of the fire escape through the fabric. Could he see in?
It's not enough. I need something more substantial.
I survey the room, spotting a narrow bookshelf against the wall.
Empty. Perfect. I drag it across the floor, wincing at the scraping noise as it leaves marks on the worn hardwood.
The bookshelf is lighter than it looks, made of cheap particleboard.
I position it against the window, pressing it firmly until it covers the entire frame.
Still not enough.
I grab the wooden chair from beside the dresser and wedge it under the doorknob. The back of the chair fits snugly against the knob, bracing it in place.
I twist the lock for good measure, hearing the satisfying click as the bolt slides into place. The sound grounds me, providing a momentary comfort.
My heart still pounds, but slower now. I press my back against the wall, taking deep breaths. One, two, three. In, out.
It's not enough. I need more protection.
I strip the blanket and comforter from the bed, gathering them in my arms along with both pillows.
I drag everything to the door, arranging the comforter in a thick line in front of the chair.
I fold the blanket several times, creating a makeshift mattress.
The pillows go at one end, creating a nest that blocks the only entrance to the room.
If anyone tries to come in, they'll have to push against my body weight. I'll feel it. I'll wake up. I'll have those precious extra seconds to react.
I curl up on my makeshift bed, knees pulled to my chest. The floor is hard beneath the blanket, but I've slept on worse these past weeks.
I try to sleep, but my mind won't shut down. Every creak of the building sends a jolt through my system. The makeshift bed on the floor feels both secure and ridiculous—what am I doing here, barricaded in a stranger's spare room?
My thoughts race in frantic circles. Warren's face. The judge's dismissal. My mother's betrayal. The camera behind my bookshelf. The wet toothbrush.
I drift in and out of consciousness, never fully surrendering to sleep. In these half-waking moments, I see Warren's truck idling outside, his silhouette behind the wheel, waiting. Always waiting.
A door slams somewhere in the building, and I bolt upright, heart hammering. My neck aches from the awkward position on the floor. I check my phone—3:17 AM. The screen's glow feels too bright, too exposed.
I lower my phone, shrouding myself in darkness again. The floor beneath the blanket digs into my hip bones, and I shift, trying to find a more comfortable position. It's useless. My body is too tense, my mind too alert.
After an hour of this half-conscious vigilance, I surrender. My eyes slowly close, darkness taking over my mind, fighting for those small scraps of sleep.