6. Prove It

6

Prove It

Violet

My doorframe rattles as a fist pounds against it.

"Vi, come on. It's time to get up." Three knocks hammer in succession as Mila continues to bang on it. "We're going to be late, and we all know how you feel about that."

Late?

Blinking my eyes open, my bright room slowly comes into focus. Everything is heavy—it hurts. My body throbs as I pull myself to sit.

"I don't feel so good." My words come out raspy, and my throat aches. "I'll meet you there."

"Can I get you something?" she asks, always acting like the mother of our friend group.

"No." I cough.

My throat is like sandpaper .

"All right." Mila taps the door once more. "Text if you need me to bring you back anything."

"Thanks."

I rub my neck, and it's sore all the way around. Thankfully, Mila doesn't ask me any more questions before leaving because it hurts to swallow, and it's nearly unbearable to speak. I lift my arm, but my limbs are heavy and difficult to move as my fingers find my throat. I skim my fingers down the center of it.

I'm somewhere between half asleep and feeling sick as memories of last night come into focus. A fog slowly lifts like the clouds parting above the tree line. Cool winter air in my lungs and leaves crunching beneath me.

Blinking my eyes open again, the room starts to clear.

Was it all a dream?

A nightmare?

I skim my hands down over my stomach, and my insides twist in knots when my fingertips graze over something crusty. I glance down at the thick, matted mess on the front of my white sweater, and I'm not ready to face the reality staring back at me.

Skating my fingers over the blood splatter, I try to focus—to remember the night clearly. My hands trace down the blood to the hole ripped in my fishnets, and my chest tightens with the reminder of Saint's fingers slipping between the holes. The sound of the netting tearing as he ripped them open hits me full force.

None of this was in my head, and there's no waking up.

Liam .

Saint .

"No, no, no." I scramble to my feet, nearly falling when I try to stand.

Luckily, I catch myself on the mattress, closing my eyes and trying to clear my head.

Everything about last night is blurry, and it's almost impossible to see through the haze.

Why is it so hard to remember?

Inhaling deeply through my nose, I remember the cloth. The struggle for air. The darkness.

Saint must have drugged me after what he did because that's the last thing I saw before everything went black. Then, I was floating. Hanging in a state of suspension, like being underwater. Peaceful, even as my lungs burned for air.

Opening my eyes, I take in my room. It's the same as yesterday, with everything in its place. Nothing around me has changed when I don't feel like myself at all. I'm a wobbly mess in the center, unable to remember how I got back here.

I try to stand again and stumble. This time, I brace myself on my nightstand, knocking my purse over as I do.

My purse?

That can't be right. The last time I saw it was on the floor of Liam's car. My fingers itched to reach for the front pocket to grab my phone. But then everything happened so fast.

Saint.

Blood.

I left it when I made a run for it into the forest. But here it is, sitting on the nightstand like it's been here all along .

This can't be happening.

None of this is real.

The last thing that made sense was Liam driving us to the Valentine's Massacre party. We must have arrived, and maybe I drank too much? Someone might have slipped something into my drink. Or maybe this is all some sick prank.

Glancing down at the matted blood on my sweater, I wonder how far someone would go to pull a prank like this. I know real blood when I see it. This isn't ketchup or paint. And with how my body hurts and aches, I'm certain what happened in the forest wasn't just in my head.

Picking up my purse, I dig into the front pocket and pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find Liam's number. I press his name and lift my phone to my ear, begging him to answer.

This is all a dream.

All a nightmare.

It rings and rings, and each one rattles loose the denial I'm clinging to.

"This is Liam. You know what to—"

His voicemail.

I end the call, and I'm gripping my phone so hard that I'm going to break it. Staring down at the blank screen, my mind races, struggling to figure out what to do. I could call for help. I should . But the room is flipping over on itself, and there's no turning back time.

What's done is done.

Liam is dead .

And it's all my fault .

The moment the police are involved I'll have to explain how I brought this on both of us. They'll find my chats, and I'll be outed for my disgusting thoughts.

I head to the Jack and Jill bathroom, which I share with Patience. The door to her room is closed, so I lock both doors and flick on the light. The dorm is quiet, and I'm thankful my roommates are either already in class or sleeping.

Sharing a dorm with three other girls can be nice because it forces me to socialize. But right now, I can't bear the thought of facing Patience, Mila, or Teal.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the brightness as I turn and face my reflection in the mirror. And once they do, there's no denying the truth staring back at me.

Blood splatters my sweater—my shorts, my skin. It smears up my arms and along my neck and cheek where Saint grabbed me. His finger marks streak my pale face like one of Teal's paintings.

My fishnets are torn, and my clothes are caked in dirt and leaves. My long black hair is a matted mess. Dried mascara paints rivers down my cheeks.

Faint bruising is starting to form where Saint's fingers gripped my neck.

Lifting my fingers, I brush across them, drifting into the memory of his grip. Remembering choking on my breath while my body hummed with excitement.

I let him do this.

He shoved me into the dirt and took me like I was nothing. The blue Xs of his mask glowed as he stood over me. He forced me to face my sins. Twisting my unholy confessions until he convinced me I asked for this.

Who does that to someone?

Tears blur my vision as I'm lost in my reflection. My stomach turns as I take in the mess I incited on myself through one online conversation. My friends tried to warn me about the Dark Desires app. They said it was nothing but trouble, and they were right. Not that I listened.

I downloaded it to get back at Liam for hitting on another girl at one of his many frat parties.

I never meant for it to turn into this.

Releasing my neck, I press my palms over my stomach. It's turning again. Bile rises in my throat.

Taking a deep breath, I try to remember how I got back here. The last thing I remember was sitting on the forest floor, disappointed Saint wasn't going to fuck me.

How deeply disturbed am I to feel like that?

Maybe Mom is right. I shouldn't have stopped my therapy sessions. Anyone in a healthy state of mind wouldn't have asked for more after what Saint did.

My phone chimes, and I jump at the sound.

It's distinct—not a text or call.

The chime is something I haven't heard in three weeks because only one app makes that noise, and I deleted Dark Desires from my phone out of guilt after I confessed my sick fantasies to a stranger online.

But as my gaze drops to my phone sitting on the counter, the familiar black box with a feather inside tells me I have a message, and my heart plummets when I click it open.

Saint: Morning, kitten.

He's no longer using the devil emoji for his name, instead opting for the title he gave himself as my savior.

Violet: Leave me alone.

Saint: You're better off requesting things I'm willing to give you.

Violet: I'm calling the police.

Saint: Why would you do that?

Violet: You killed him.

Saint: Who? You'll have to be more specific.

My grip on my phone tightens, and for the first time, I consider Liam might not be the first life Saint has taken.

Violet: My boyfriend.

Saint: Liam? I heard he's taking a vacation.

I read his message over and over, my heart racing.

Violet: What did you do?

Saint: Absolutely nothing.

Violet: That's a lie.

Saint: Prove it.

Saint: See you soon, kitten.

I'm about to type a response when a picture comes through, and my fingers freeze.

It's me lying in bed last night in this outfit. I'm asleep, and the room is dark, so I can barely make myself out clearly. But in the mirror above my dresser, there's a figure that sends a cool chill up my spine. Neon blue Xs and a wicked smile look down at where I'm lying on the bed .

And almost as soon as I process the image, the conversation wipes clean and disappears. He must have hacked my phone because one by one every message blinks away, and then it's gone.

Saint is toying with me, and he's not done yet.

Liam is dead.

Not much is clear about last night, but I'm positive about that single fact.

I set my phone down beside the sink and grip the counter. My shoulders deflate and they burn with how stiff I've been holding them. My throat is raw from Saint fucking it, and I'm shaking, coming down from the high of what happened.

Lifting off the counter, I turn on the shower, ready to wash away a night my mind will never escape. But as I pull the shower door closed, something on the inside of my wrist catches my attention.

At the very edge of my wrist, where it meets the pad of my thumb, a cross is carved into my skin. The way it's positioned is upside down. Puffy, angry, and red where the jagged marks are deeply carved. And in one of the corners is a scribbled S .

Saint .