The side of Reid’s mouth quirked up, just a bit. “The accused asserts that the victim had slow reflexes. He said he’d never seen such pathetic reflexes in his life.” And then I laughed for real.
“On the contrary, the victim had amazing reflexes. In fact, she dove in front of the accused to protect him. That’s how fast she is.”
Reid was smiling. Smiling and laughing. “The accused would like to point out, for the record, that he told her not to come into his room in the first place.”
Reid’s hand was still on mine, from when he had pulled my arm away from my face. We seemed to notice it at the same time, because he looked at his hand. But he didn’t move it away.
“Don’t blame her. The victim only wanted to make him smile.”
And then he stopped smiling. And he took his other hand and brushed the hair away from my cheek. Ran his thumb across the spot where I’d been hit. Then moved his hand back to my hair, moved his face closer to mine, and I held my breath, thinking, He’s going to kiss me. I remembered Colleen telling me to close my eyes, so I did.
“What the hell am I doing?” he said, and the air around me felt empty. I opened my eyes and Reid was backing away from me. “I’m sorry,” he said.
He walked out of his room. I stayed there until my heart rate returned to normal, until my face wasn’t red from embarrassment. Then I walked down the stairs and waved to my parents.
We left a half hour later, and that was the last I’d seen of Reid. Dad stopped going to events after that—like the absence of his closest childhood friend, his high school roommate, was too much to endure.
Funny how two years can feel like nothing. How one moment can feel like eternity.
Two years, like they never even existed.
One moment, like there had never been anything else, would never be anything more.
Boom, boom, boom.
Someone was knocking. A dull thud, like someone was using the side of a closed fist instead of knuckles. I pictured Reid on the other side. Being bold, like I had been. “I told you no,” I said, but this stupid grin was spreading across my face.
I opened the door to nothing. No, not nothing, no one. Because there was definitely something. Red and globbed and smeared across my door. Drops sliding downward, like tears. A small puddle on the linoleum floor, spreading like blood.
Everything inside of me froze, until I felt the hallway fill up—felt it practically vibrate with his presence. My eyes darted around the empty hallway until it seemed to constrict. And the entire feeling contracted into the space behind me. A wave of chills started at my scalp and slid down my arms, my spine, my legs.
My senses went on high alert—like I could see more clearly and hear more sharply—and I smelled something off, not quite right. Something chemical. I stepped closer to the door, bent down, and dipped my fingers in the puddle on the floor. Cold. Nothing like blood. I brought my red fingers to my face and breathed in through my nose. Paint. This was paint.
There were voices in the distance—girls laughing and a guy talking too loud—probably on their way back. I ran to the bathroom, and as I pushed the door open, I got this flash in my mind. Red handprints. Everywhere.
But I squeezed my eyes shut and thought No.
I brought wet paper towels back to my room and saturated my door. I squeezed and squeezed until the puddle at my feet was thin and the paint streaked unevenly through the water. Then I wiped it all up and buried the evidence in the bottom of the trash in the restroom. I couldn’t see the red anymore, but there was still this dark spot. A water mark. A reminder. So I got more paper towels and started scrubbing harder.
And the whole time, I felt that presence pressed up against my back, and I could imagine his mouth, breathing against my neck through his teeth.
Like I could feel him smiling.
I didn’t meet Brian that day on the boardwalk. We’d almost met. He smiled and stepped toward me, and I was wondering what to say. Sorry I was staring, I thought you were someone else? Sorry I’m still staring? I’m not sorry I’m staring because I still can’t look away?
I tried to pull myself together because he was heading straight for me. Then this guy on a skateboard crashed into him. Came out of nowhere, music so loud I could hear it from his earbuds through the crowd. Brian stumbled backward and the skateboard slid out from under the other guy.
And then Brian yanked the earbuds out of the guy’s ears and punched him in the face.
Just like that.
And, just like that, a circle formed around them as the skateboard guy, twice Brian’s width, took a swing back at him. Brian ducked, smiled, and attacked. And then there were fists flying and blood spurting and people yelling, and I still couldn’t look away.
Until two cops came and pulled them apart and started leading them down the boardwalk. But Brian turned and scanned the crowd for me and he smiled. After all that, he was still looking for me. He yelled out, “Meet me here tomorrow,” like he was so sure this whole cop thing was no big deal. Like it happened all the time.
And like I should know what time he meant.
So that next day, even though I told myself I wasn’t looking for him, I showed up early, before lunch. Just in case. And that’s when I fell for him. Because he was already there too. He had a cut over his right eye, and there was a dark bruise underneath it, but he was there. Waiting for me.
Like he was still here now. Waiting. And smiling.
I heard voices in the lobby. The slow, monotone authority of Krista’s voice. And the rise and fall of Bree’s words coming straight from her brain out her mouth. I slipped into my room and shut the door behind me.
“Is it weird, though? Since he’s your cousin?”
A pause. “Not at all,” she said. The words were clipped, pronounced perfectly. Almost rehearsed.
“Because you could tell me, you know. If it gets weird, I mean. Or if it’s weird for me to talk about him.”
“Jesus,” she said. “He asked you to hang out after class, not have his babies.”
“Ha,” Bree said. “It does bother you.”
“Bree,” Krista said, in this way that suddenly made me understand what it meant to speak carefully. “I doubt anything you do will bother me.”
Bree laughed and started talking faster, like she was excited, but the way Krista said it didn’t make it sound like a good thing. It sounded like Bree was inconsequential. Like she didn’t matter enough to her at all.
And then a third voice, quieter, said, “He doesn’t have the best reputation.” Taryn, I guessed.
There was this beat of silence before I heard Bree laugh again. “Yeah, well, neither do I.”
The door shut behind them and I was left with the silence again. With nothing but Bree’s words lingering in my head. Because Bree didn’t have a reputation yet. So I guess what she was really saying was neither will I. Like that was the whole purpose.
Which was the type of thing someone said who had never truly had a bad reputation before.
This is what the people with the bad reputation do: they take a sleeping pill and hope that their ghosts won’t come for them each night.
But all the hoping in the world doesn’t change what happens.
The ghosts always come.
It starts in the distance.
Boom, boom, boom.
Chapter 6
Something wasn’t right. I could sense that even though I was nearly asleep. I shouldn’t have taken the sleeping pill. Someone was out there. Someone had thrown red paint on my door, playing a joke on me. Or maybe it wasn’t a joke. Maybe it was Brian’s mom. And here I was, sleeping. Almost sleeping.
The heartbeat filling the room paused, the room still buzzing with energy, and then there was a harsh whisper. “Mallory,” it said, sounding far, far away.
Something grazed my shoulder. Just barely. Like I might’ve imagined it. And then fingers tightened around my shoulder and I felt warm breath on my ear. A whisper. Wait.