Five
770 Words
HANNA POV
“You came.”
His voice wrapped around me smoothly. Calm. Warm. Dangerous.
I stopped a few feet away from him, rainwater still dripping from my coat onto the polished gallery floor.
“I almost didn’t,” I said.
Jan tilted his head slightly like he didn’t believe me.
“You were always going to.”
Something about the way he said it irritated me immediately.
Like he knew me.
Like he understood parts of me I hadn’t even shown the people closest to me.
I crossed my arms. “You keep talking like we know each other.”
“We do.”
“No,” I said sharply. “You know me. That’s different.”
For the first time since I met him, his smile faded slightly.
A strange look crossed his face. Something darker. Sadder.
“You really don’t remember anything.”
The words unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
I looked around the gallery instead of answering.
It was beautiful in a disturbing way.
The walls were covered in massive oil paintings drenched in dark colors. Black. Crimson. Deep blues. Every piece looked violent without showing violence directly.
One painting caught my attention immediately.
A woman standing in the rain with blood running down her hands.
My chest tightened.
Because she looked like me.
I walked toward it slowly.
“Who painted this?”
“You did.”
I turned around instantly. “What?”
Jan stepped closer, hands in his pockets.
“You painted it when you were sixteen.”
“That’s impossible.”
“You used to paint all the time before you switched to sketching.”
“I’ve never painted in my life.”
A small smile touched his mouth again, but this one felt bitter.
“Yes,” he murmured. “You have.”
I stared at him, trying to decide if he was insane or if I was.
“You keep saying things like they’re facts,” I said carefully. “But I don’t remember you. I don’t remember this place. I don’t remember any childhood friendship.”
“You remember pieces,” he said softly.
“No, I don’t.”
His blue eyes held mine steadily.
“Rain scares you.”
I froze.
“You sleep with the TV on because silence makes the nightmares worse.”
My stomach twisted.
“You crack your knuckles when you’re angry. And when you lie…” His gaze slowly dropped to my hand. “You rub your thumb against your finger exactly three times.”
I stopped moving instantly.
Because I was doing it now.
Fear crawled slowly up my spine.
“How do you know that?”
Jan walked closer.
Too close.
“You used to tell me everything.”
His voice had lowered now. Softer. Intimate.
Like this conversation belonged in a bedroom instead of a gallery.
I forced myself not to step back.
“You’re stalking me.”
“No,” he said calmly.
“Then what would you call it?”
His eyes darkened slightly.
“Remembering.”
The word hit harder than it should have.
I hated the effect he had on me.
Hated the way my body reacted before my brain could.
Because standing this close to him felt wrong…
but it also felt familiar.
And that terrified me most.
My phone suddenly buzzed in my pocket.
The sharp sound broke whatever strange tension had formed between us.
I pulled it out quickly.
Marcus.
I answered immediately. “What?”
“Hanna, where are you?”
“At the gallery.”
A pause.
Then Marcus cursed under his breath.
“You need to leave.”
My body stiffened instantly. “Why?”
“We found another body.”
Everything inside me went cold.
“When?”
“About thirty minutes ago.”
I looked at Jan automatically.
He was watching my face carefully.
Too carefully.
“Where?” I asked.
Marcus hesitated.
Then quietly said, “Two blocks from your apartment.”
My pulse slammed hard against my ribs.
“What?”
“There’s more,” Marcus continued. “The victim was posed.”
A sick feeling twisted in my stomach.
“How?”
Another pause.
Then—
“She was holding one of your sketches.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
The blood drained from my face slowly.
Jan noticed immediately.
“What happened?” he asked softly.
I stared at him.
At those impossible blue eyes.
At the man I had drawn my entire life.
And for the first time…
I wondered if I had been sketching the face of a killer all along.
- Writer
