The Devil Knows My Name

The first time a stranger called me by a name I had never told him, I was driving through the rain with someone following me. I should probably mention that I had already made several bad decisions that night. The first was leaving work late. The second was taking the old road home instead of the main highway. The third was noticing the black car behind me and convincing myself I was imagining things. Rain hammered against my windshield, turning the city into a blur of headlights and wet asphalt. My wipers moved back and forth, barely keeping up. I checked the rearview mirror again. The black sedan was still there. Same distance. Same speed. No attempt to overtake me. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Okay,” I whispered. “You're being paranoid.” The car stayed behind me. I took the next turn. So did it. My stomach dropped. I made another turn, this one completely unnecessary. The sedan followed. That was when I stopped pretending. I reached for my phone, intending to call Maya, but the screen lit up before my fingers touched it. UNKNOWN NUMBER. I stared at it. For a few seconds, I considered letting it ring. Then I answered. “Hello?” Nothing. Only static. I swallowed. “Who is this?” A man's voice came through. Low. Calm. Too calm. “Elena.” Every muscle in my body went rigid. I hadn't told him my name. I hadn't told anyone my name tonight. “Who are you?” “You shouldn't have taken this road.” I glanced at the rearview mirror. The black sedan was still there. My mouth went dry. “How do you know my name?” “You need to turn around.” “Who are you?” “Listen to me carefully. Don't go home.” A cold feeling crawled up my spine. “What?” “They found you.” I laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “Who found me?” The line went silent. Then he said something that made my hands go numb. “You were never supposed to survive that night.” The call ended. I stared at the phone. For several seconds, I couldn't move. Then the car behind me accelerated. I pressed the gas. The sedan followed. My heart slammed against my ribs. I didn't go home. I drove straight to Maya's apartment. By the time I reached her building, the rain had soaked the streets and my thoughts were a mess of half-formed questions. I parked badly, grabbed my phone, and hurried inside. I stood outside Maya's door for a moment before knocking. The hallway suddenly felt too quiet. I looked over my shoulder. Nothing. No footsteps. No black sedan visible through the rain-streaked window at the end of the corridor. No stranger waiting for me. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching. Maya opened the door. “Elena?” I stepped inside quickly. She locked it behind me. “You're shaking.” “I know.” “Did the car follow you?” “I don't know.” That frightened me more than anything. Maya stared at me. “What do you mean?” “I lost it. Then I found it here.” Her face went pale. “You're sure it was the same car?” “Yes.” She reached for my hand. “Then don't go anywhere alone tonight.” I wanted to argue. Instead, I nodded. Because for the first time, the thought of being alone scared me more than admitting I needed someone beside me. Maya studied my face. “What happened?” I handed her my phone. She read the call log. “Unknown number?” I nodded. “What did he say?” I hesitated. Then I told her. Everything. When I finished, Maya was quiet. “He knew your name?” “Yes.” “Your full name?” “Yes.” “And he mentioned the fire?” I looked at her. “How did you know about the fire?” Her expression changed. I suddenly remembered. I had told her about it years ago. Not everything. Never everything. Just that my childhood home had burned down and my mother had disappeared afterward. Maya lowered her voice. “Maybe someone from your past found you.” “My past doesn't know where I am.” “You don't know that.” I looked toward the locked door. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about the voice. You were never supposed to survive that night. There were things about that night I didn't remember. A smell of smoke. A hand around mine. A man's voice telling me to run. And sometimes, when I woke from nightmares, I could swear I heard someone whispering my name. Not Elena. Something else. A name that always disappeared the moment I tried to remember it. Across the city, in a building where the windows overlooked half the skyline, Lucian Devereux stood in front of a wall of glass and watched the rain fall. His phone was on the table behind him. Rafael entered without knocking. “She reached the apartment.” Lucian didn't turn. “Maya's?” “Yes.” “Is she alone?” “No.” Lucian's jaw tightened. “She shouldn't be there.” Rafael crossed the room. “You said not to interfere.” “I said not to approach her.” “There's a difference?” Lucian finally turned. “There is when I give the orders.” Rafael studied him. “You've been watching her for years.” Lucian said nothing. “You knew she'd take that road.” “I knew she might.” “You knew the call would happen.” Lucian's eyes hardened. “I didn't make the call.” That stopped Rafael. “Then who did?” Lucian looked back toward the rain. “I don't know.” For the first time that night, something close to unease crossed his face. Rafael noticed. That worried him more than the message itself. “There's something else,” Rafael said. Lucian waited. “Adrian asked for the old file.” Lucian's expression changed immediately. “No.” “He already knows about her.” “How much?” “I don't know.” Lucian walked to the table and picked up the file Rafael had brought. It was old. The edges were worn. The photograph on top showed a little girl standing beside a woman in front of a house. Lucian stared at the child. Even after all these years, he remembered her eyes. He remembered the smoke. He remembered her small hand slipping from his. And he remembered the name she had called him. A name no one had used since he was seventeen. “Lucian.” Rafael watched him. “You remember her.” Lucian closed the file. “I never forgot her.” Before Rafael could answer, another phone on the table vibrated. A message. Lucian opened it. There were only four words. SHE'S NOT THE ONLY ONE. His face went completely still. Rafael saw the message. “What does that mean?” Lucian didn't answer. He was staring at the photograph again. At the little girl. At the woman beside her. At the fire behind them. Then another message appeared. SHE REMEMBERS THE FIRE. Lucian's fingers tightened around the phone. Across the city, Elena was standing beside Maya's window, staring down at the wet street. She couldn't see the black sedan anymore. She almost allowed herself to breathe. Then her phone vibrated. UNKNOWN NUMBER. One new message. I REMEMBER YOU, LENA. My blood turned cold. I read the message twice, then a third time, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying. They didn't. I had never told anyone that name. Not even Maya. And somewhere outside the apartment, a car door quietly closed.