Chapter 11 — The Wrong Corridor
That evening, Noah didn’t wait at the gate.
Daniel had a late meeting.
Marianne was visiting her sister.
The house would be empty when I got back.
For the first time, the silence didn’t feel safe.
I left school with the last wave of students.
Tried to stick close to groups.
Kept my keys between my fingers.
The sky had cleared, but the air stayed damp, cold under my collar.
At the gate, I looked for Noah anyway.
Habit is a cruel thing.
He wasn’t there.
I texted him before I could stop myself.
**Where are you?**
No response.
Five minutes.
Ten.
The buses pulled away one by one.
The courtyard emptied.
The flag on the pole went slack.
I turned back toward the building.
The main hallway lights were dimmed for the night.
One of the corridor bulbs flickered on and off like a failing heartbeat.
My phone flashlight painted a narrow cone ahead of me.
My footsteps sounded too loud.
I reached Noah’s classroom floor.
The corridor outside his room was darker than the others.
The light there had been broken for weeks. No one fixed it.
I knocked softly on the door.
“Noah?” I whispered.
No answer.
I knocked again, harder.
A hand clamped onto my shoulder from behind.
A voice dropped near my ear.
“Looking for someone?”
My blood turned to ice.
For half a second, I couldn’t breathe.
I turned fast—too fast—and my palm flew up on instinct.
The slap landed with a crack that made my skin sting.
A boy yelped.
Not a predator’s sound.
A human sound.
He stumbled backward, sitting hard on the floor, one hand pressed to his cheek.
In my phone light, I saw his face.
Wide eyes.
Dark hair falling into his forehead.
A look of pure, offended disbelief.
He stared at me like I’d committed a felony.
“You—” he gasped. “What was that for?”
My heart was still hammering.
I swallowed hard, throat burning.
“I thought you weren’t… a person,” I said.
He blinked.
Then he made a strangled noise between a laugh and a groan.
“I’m not a person?” he repeated. “What else would I be, Evie? A ghost?”
I stared.
“You know my name?”
He shifted, still holding his cheek.
“I go to this school,” he said, like I was slow. “And you’re the girl from the confession wall.”
Heat climbed my face.
I wanted to disappear into the dark.
He gritted his teeth.
“And my cheekbone would like to file a complaint.”
I looked down at my hands.
They were shaking.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. “I panicked.”
He exhaled.
Then, surprisingly, he held out his other hand.
“Come on,” he said. “You look like you’re about to faint. Let’s sit somewhere with actual light before you assault someone else.”
Ten minutes later, we were in an empty classroom.
The overhead lights buzzed.
My breath finally slowed.
He sat across from me, still touching his cheek as if testing whether it remained attached.
“So,” he said. “Why were you stalking Noah’s hallway?”
“I wasn’t stalking,” I said quickly. “I was—looking for him.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Because you’re friends?”
I didn’t answer.
He watched me for a beat, then softened slightly.
“Okay,” he said. “New question. Do you know Noah left early today?”
My stomach tightened.
“No.”
He leaned back, chair creaking.
“He signed out,” he said. “With his girlfriend.”
My fingers curled around my phone.
“He has a girlfriend.”
The boy’s mouth twitched.
“News travels slow in Honors Track,” he said, then sighed. “Her name’s Iris. She transferred in last week.”
The name landed like a small stone in my chest.
I opened my mouth.
Closed it again.
He watched my face, and something in his expression shifted—less amused, more careful.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded, too quickly again.
“I’m fine.”
It sounded like a lie.