Chapter 40 TARGET ON HER BACK
MERRIELYNN.
The sight before me was too much to process.
Blood was smeared across every surface, the metallic scent clinging to the air like a cruel reminder. But the word painted on the wall was what shattered me most.
KILLER.
The letters loomed over me, bold and deliberate, each stroke sharp and angry. My chest tightened, and I stumbled back into the doorframe, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
Why me?
Why was I always the target?
Why couldn’t I catch a break?
Everything in my life had been spiraling out of control lately, but this… this was worse than anything I could have imagined. Fear gripped me as I stared at the word, my mind racing to make sense of it.
Killer? I repeated it in my head, the word twisting in my mind like a cruel taunt.
I wasn’t a killer.
Who could possibly think I was?
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the sight, but it was burned into my mind. My hands clenched into fists at my sides. This had to be a joke.
A cruel, horrible joke meant to make my life more miserable than it already was.
Someone had it out for me.
But who?
A nagging thought crept into my mind, unsettling and ironic all at once: Maybe this wasn’t Cormac’s doing.
It didn’t feel like him.
Sure, he had his manipulative, twisted ways, but this seemed different. Too personal. Too cruel.
But if not Cormac, then who?
The question gnawed at me, but I couldn’t find an answer. All I could do was stare at the word, my emotions crashing over me in waves—fear, anger, confusion. I needed to do something. I couldn’t just stand here and let this overwhelm me.
Before I could think it through, I threw myself into action.
I ripped the sheets off my bed, tearing them from the mattress with shaking hands. A single tear slid down my face as I worked, but I ignored it. I couldn’t fall apart now. The anger boiling inside me pushed me forward.
I grabbed the sheet and used it to scrub at the wall, attacking the letters with a ferocity I didn’t know I had. The blood smeared under the fabric, spreading the word into a grotesque red blur.
“Get out,” I muttered under my breath, my voice cracking. “Get out of my room. Get out of my life!”
I kept scrubbing, harder and harder, until my hands were slick with blood. The smell clung to me, thick and nauseating, but I didn’t stop. When the letters were finally gone, replaced by a horrible, dripping mess in the middle of the room, I stepped back, gasping for air.
I looked down at my hands—red, sticky, trembling. The sight made my stomach churn, and for the first time since I’d walked in, I broke.
The sobs came hard and fast, wracking my body as I sank to the floor.
Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the blood on my hands as I pressed them against my mouth to muffle the sound.
I didn’t know how long I cried. Minutes? Hours?
Time didn’t seem to matter anymore.
When I finally pulled myself together enough to stand, my legs felt weak beneath me.
I couldn’t leave my room like this. If anyone saw what had happened, the questions would start, and I didn’t have answers. I didn’t want Emorie worrying about me, and I definitely didn’t want to be the center of more rumors.
Sniffling, I grabbed a clean cloth and a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing at the floor until my arms ached. The blood smeared further before it finally began to fade, leaving behind faint pink streaks that I couldn’t quite get rid of.
When the room was as clean as I could manage, I dragged myself to the bathroom.
The sight of myself in the mirror stopped me cold.
My blonde hair was a tangled mess, streaked with red where I’d pushed it out of my face. My eyes were bloodshot, swollen from crying, and my shirt was soaked with blood. My hands and arms were stained red, and the gunk was stuck deep under my nails.
I looked away, unable to face my reflection any longer. This isn’t the life I signed up for, I thought bitterly.
This wasn’t the experience I was supposed to have.
The tears came again, but I forced them down, shaking my head. I couldn’t break down anymore. I needed to pull myself together.
I scrubbed the blood from my skin until it felt raw, letting the warm water wash away the evidence of what had happened. When I was clean, I changed into fresh clothes and crawled into bed, pulling the blanket tightly around me.
But sleep didn’t come.
I stared at the ceiling, the message burned into my mind. The word repeated over and over like a cruel whisper.
Killer.
Killer.
Killer.
I wasn’t a killer. I wasn’t.
So why did it feel like an accusation?
\-x-x-
The next morning, I dragged myself to school, my body heavy with exhaustion.
The events of the night before played on a loop in my mind, but I forced myself to push through the day.
I needed answers.
As I walked through the halls, I scanned the faces around me, searching for anything—any sideways glance that might give someone away. Anything at all–But everyone looked the same as they always did: busy, distracted, oblivious.
The strangest part was that I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t Cormac.
I didn’t know why, but something about it didn’t fit his MO. He’d been calm, almost civil, when I’d seen him in the archi hall. And if this had been his doing, wouldn’t he have gloated about it?
Still, the question remained. If not Cormace, then who?
I clenched my fists, the frustration bubbling up again.
Someone out there wanted to make my life a living hell, and I was determined to find out who.
I didn't take Cormac's bullshit laying down easy.
And what exactly could be worse than the devil himself?
I wouldn’t let them win.
But as I moved through the day, a sinking feeling settled in my chest.
What if I never found out?
What if this was just the beginning?
I pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the people around me.
Someone had to know something.
Someone had to be responsible.
And I wouldn’t stop until I figured out who.