Page 9 of Her Name in Red
I move before I even realize it. My fist collides with his jaw. Hard. Quick. No hesitation.
The crack of bone over music.
Jackson stumbles back, clutching his face. Silence. Shock. Someone mutters, “What the fuck, dude?”
I breathe heavily. Don't apologize.
My classmates stare at me, confused. The music keeps pounding, but it feels distant now, like it's coming from underwater. My knuckles throb, a dull ache that's almost satisfying. Jackson's looking at me with wide eyes, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
“You don't know shit,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous. “None of you do.”
Thompson steps forward, his chest puffed out like he's trying to intimidate me. It's almost laughable. “Back off, man. We were just joking around.”
“You talk about her like that again, and I'll do worse,” I snarl, my voice barely above a whisper but carrying enough venom to make Thompson take a step back.
I shouldn't care. She isn't my problem. She isn't my responsibility. She isn't mine.
My feet carry me through the house on autopilot, weaving between sweaty bodies and discarded red cups. The air smells of spilled beer and cheap perfume, cloying and suffocating. It reminds me of her scent that night—copper and lilacs, intoxicating and deadly.
I find myself in the upstairs bathroom, gripping the edges of the sink so hard my knuckles turn white. The mirror reflects a stranger back at me—angry and dangerous, a far cry from the golden boy captain everyone expects me to be.
For a moment, I swear I see her standing behind me. But when I whirl around, the bathroom is empty save for the shower curtain swaying gently in the breeze from the open window.
I turn back to the mirror, my breath fogging the glass. The urge to say her name is overwhelming, a siren song I can't resist. “Maren,” I whisper, the word hanging in the air like a prayer. “Maren. Maren.”
Nothing happens, of course. She doesn't materialize in a puff of smoke or crawl out of the drain like some B-movie horror movie. But I can feel her presence all the same.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself back to reality. The icy droplets trickle down my neck.
Something prickles at the back of my neck, an instinct I can't shake. Slowly, I lift my eyes to the window.
And there she is.
Standing just outside, watching. A smirk barely touches her lips, like she knew I'd snap. Like she was waiting for it.
I exhale slowly, my throat tight.
Maren lifts a hand, her movements slow and deliberate. For a moment, I think she's going to wave, but instead, she blows a kiss.
I can almost feel the phantom touch of her lips against my skin, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
I watch transfixed as her lips move. Even through the glass, I can read them clearly: “You said my name.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. She heard me. Somehow, impossibly, she heard me call for her.
Before I can react, before I can even think about calling out to her, Maren turns. The movement is fluid, almost catlike in its grace. One moment she's there, her eyes locked on mine, and the next she's melting into the dark.
I lunge for the window, yanking it all the way open with enough force that the old frame groans in protest. The cool night air rushes in, carrying with it the faint scent of lilacs. Her scent.
“Maren!” I call out, not caring who hears me. But it's too late. She's gone.
I lean out the window, scanning the yard desperately. But there's no sign of her. Just drunk college kids stumbling around, oblivious to the fact that their urban legend just made an appearance.
My mind races, trying to make sense of what just happened. Was she really here? Or am I finally losing it, seeing things that aren't there?
Chapter 4
Maren
