Page 3 of She Haunts Me Still

She takes another dizzying sniff, but the odor is gone now, like she imagined it altogether.

“That’s abadcut.” Concern is woven into Arden’s peach-toned complexion as she peers down the hall. “Let me see if I can find help.” She pauses, waving her hands like she’s directing air traffic. “Hey! Hey, you! Over here!”

“Arden,whatare you doing?” Mallory hisses, cradling her palm.

“You need stitches,” Arden says before turning toward an approaching dark-haired man. “Are you heading to the first-year auditions forRomeo and Juliet?”

The tall man fixes them with a curious stare. “Yeah, I’m actually the—”

“Fantastic,” she barrels on. “Can you tell them MalloryWebb and Arden Thatcher had a medical emergency? I’m taking her to the ER.”

“No, Arden, wait…” Mallory inhales unevenly. The room tips on its side; dizzying stars float beneath her lashes. “We can’t miss auditions. Are you serious?”

“Areyou?” Arden’s expression turns incredulous. “You need to go to the hospital. They’ll let us audition a different day—they have to.”

Mallory dares another peek at her injured hand. Her normally creamy skin is flushed purple around the cut, and her palm is throbbing. Deep down, she knows Arden is right, but the idea of being last to audition makes anxiety coil in her stomach.

She didn’t get this far to miss the most important moment of her college career. She’ll do her monologue bleeding out if she has to.

“We can go to the ER after,” Mallory says. “I’ll find something to wrap it with in the meantime.”

“Mal, that’s ridiculous—”

“What did you say your names were?” the man asks, and Mallory looks up, fully registering his presence.

He’s wearing a long dark coat with the collar pulled high, the edges skimming the hard lines of his jaw. Black pants. Black boots. The pale slices of his cheekbones gather shadows in the dim light, and Mallory’s mouth suddenly feels like cotton.

“Mallory Webb,” she answers. “And Arden Thatcher. We’re first-years.”

He nods, dark green eyes cutting toward the shelves. “Here.” He reaches for a bin of vintage scarves and handkerchiefs. “Use this. To wrap your hand, I mean.”

“What? Absolutely not.” Disgust blossoms on Arden’s face. “Mal, don’t listen to him. You’ll get sepsis or something.”

The dark-haired man gives Arden an amused smile as he pulls out a lace-trimmed white handkerchief embroidered with violet flowers. “I’m fairly certain the theater department is obligated to wash these. She’s got to stop the bleeding before she passes out.” He turns to Mallory. “May I?”

Too lightheaded to argue, Mallory nods. She extends her wounded palm to this stranger, trying not to notice how large his hands are, or the engraved silver rings on his long, bony fingers. But her face flushes anyway as she anticipates what’s sure to be a firm grip, the meticulous way he’ll clean her up, the—

“I’ll do it,” Arden says suddenly, snatching Mallory’s hand before he can.

“Wait,” the man protests as Arden plucks the handkerchief, “that’s going to—”

Arden flattens the cloth into Mallory’s palm, and Mal cries out at the swift sting.

“Hurt,” he finishes with a sympathetic wince.

Breathless and dizzy, Mallory holds his gaze over Arden’s shoulder. He’s far too old to be a first-year, but too young to be a professor. She studies his face, trying to recall if she saw him at orientation, and something flips inside her at the inquisitive way he’s staring right back. As if he’s trying to place her, too.

Arden drops the bloodied handkerchief onto the counter. “I can take it from here,” she clips, snatching a second scarf from the basket. She softens her tone. “Thanks, though.”

“You seem like a good friend,” he says as Arden winds the cloth around Mallory’s hand. “If she starts to feel weak,or her temperature drops, take her to a hospital.” He returns his attention to Mallory. “No audition is worth hypovolemic shock.”

Mallory fiddles with her hair, unsure how to tell both this stranger and Arden that she’s been clawing her way toward this moment for years. Tonight isn’t just an audition—it’s the first crucial step in unraveling the knotted pieces of her past.

Because her mother went to this school.

Like her mother before. And before. And before.

If she spends the next four years at Shore College, perhaps she can find answers to the questions that have plagued her for her entire life.What was my mother like? What did she dream about? Who did she hope to become?