THE DEVIL I KNOW

BLAIRE

The screaming has started again.

My heart pounded so violently that it hurt, and I kept trying to run toward the sound even though my feet refused to move. It felt as though something invisible had wrapped itself around my legs, rooting me to the cold concrete floor while panic clawed its way up my throat.

Then the room came into focus.

It was always the same room.

Cold, damp, and windowless.

The single bulb hanging from the ceiling swung lazily above me, casting uneven shadows across stained concrete walls, and the metallic scent of blood settled heavily in the air until I could almost taste it.

My wrists burned against the rough ropes cutting into my skin, and every desperate attempt to free myself only made the pain worse. I wanted to look away from the figure kneeling a few feet ahead of me, but I couldn't. No matter how many times I had this nightmare, I never could.

"Blaire..." he whispered, his voice barely audible.

I shook my head frantically, already knowing what would happen next.

"Don't."

The knife caught the light for only a second before—

"No!"

I jerked upright with a scream lodged somewhere between my throat and my lungs, my entire body shaking as though I had been dropped into freezing water.

Sweat soaked through my shirt, dampened my hair, and clung uncomfortably to my skin while my breathing came in short, painful gasps that refused to slow down.

For several seconds, I couldn't convince myself I was home.

My eyes darted wildly around my bedroom, searching every corner until the familiar sight of my dresser, the framed photographs on the wall, and the curtains gently moving with the morning breeze finally pulled me back to reality.

Three years.

Three years, and I still woke up feeling as though I had never escaped that room.

I reached for the glass of water on my bedside table with trembling hands and emptied it before looking at the clock.

6:08 a.m.

I still had almost two hours before I needed to report to the station, but lying back down wasn't an option.

With a tired sigh, I pushed myself off the bed and headed toward the bathroom. Fifi had already left for work before sunrise, leaving the apartment unusually quiet, and although most people enjoyed the peace that came with living alone for a few hours, silence had become one of my greatest enemies. Silence gave my mind room to wander, and whenever it wandered, it always found its way back to that night.

I had barely stepped into the bathroom when the lights suddenly went out.

The darkness swallowed the room so quickly that every muscle in my body locked.

"Oh, God..."

The words escaped before I could stop them.

My pulse raced as I stumbled backward until I reached the hallway, my hands fumbling desperately for my phone inside the pocket of my pajama shorts. The second the flashlight came on, I released a shaky breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"It's okay," I whispered to myself, even though I didn't believe it. "You're okay."

I stood there for nearly a minute before my heartbeat finally settled enough for me to return to the bathroom. The flashlight stayed on throughout my shower, resting on the sink where its soft beam chased away every shadow, and I hated myself a little for needing something so simple to feel safe.

Trauma had a funny way of making intelligent people feel ridiculous.

By the time I finished getting dressed, I had traded my oversized sleep shirt for dark jeans, a fitted black shirt, and the leather jacket that somehow made me feel more like the detective everyone expected me to be.

Looking capable had become second nature over the years. If people believed you were strong enough, they rarely questioned whether you were falling apart.

Before heading to my car, I stopped by the security post at the entrance of the apartment complex.

Dave looked up from the newspaper spread across his desk and smiled the moment he saw me.

"Morning, Detective."

"Morning, Dave. Any idea why the power decided to abandon us this early?"

He chuckled before folding the newspaper.

"That storm last night damaged one of the transformers. They're fixing it now."

"So we'll have electricity again today?"

He scratched the side of his face apologetically.

"They're saying tomorrow morning."

I groaned dramatically.

"So much for the most expensive apartment complex in the neighborhood."

Dave laughed.

"I'll pretend you didn't say that."

"You should. I'd hate to ruin your sales pitch."

The conversation earned my first genuine smile of the day, but it disappeared the moment I climbed into my car.

The drive to the station wasn't particularly long, yet my mind still found enough time to betray me.

The nightmares had become worse over the past few months.

The sleeping pills that once knocked me unconscious barely worked anymore, and the stronger medication my doctor prescribed only delayed the dreams instead of stopping them.

Some mornings I woke up convinced I could still smell blood, while other mornings I heard his voice so clearly that I found myself turning around before remembering he wasn't here anymore.

I hated that I couldn't even remember every detail of what had happened.

There were gaps in my memory that no amount of effort could fill, and somehow those missing pieces frightened me more than the memories I already had.

The station came into view before I could lose myself completely.

The moment I parked my car, I took one slow breath and buried everything where it belonged.

Detective Blaire Hayes didn't have the luxury of falling apart during office hours.

"You're here early."

I looked toward the familiar voice and smiled.

"Hey, Georgie. When did you get in?"

Chief George Harrison adjusted the coffee cup in his hand before walking over.

"About thirty minutes ago. I dropped my wife off at the hospital first. She had the early shift."

"Tell her she's working too hard."

"I tell her that every day."

His smile lasted only a second before his expression softened.

"You look tired."

I shrugged as I dropped my bag onto my desk.

"I didn't sleep well."

"The nightmares?"

There was no point pretending otherwise.

I nodded.

George sighed heavily before reaching into his jacket pocket and handing me a small business card.

I glanced down at it.

Dr. Adrian Brooks. Clinical Psychologist.

"You've mentioned therapy before," I said.

"I'm mentioning it again."

"I'm managing."

"Blaire," he said gently, "managing and healing aren't the same thing."

I slipped the card into my pocket more to end the conversation than because I intended to use it.

"I'll think about it."

He studied me for a long moment, and judging by the look on his face, he knew exactly how empty that promise was.

"I hope you do."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of paperwork, interviews, and an endless stack of reports that seemed determined to reproduce every time I finished one. By the time I finally dragged myself home, the sun had already disappeared behind the skyline, and exhaustion weighed heavily on my shoulders.

The apartment smelled like heaven.

"You made pasta?" I called out as I slipped off my shoes.

Fifi peeked out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand.

"I did, and you're welcome."

"I was going to say thank you."

"I know, but I like hearing 'you're welcome' better."

I laughed quietly before joining her in the kitchen.

Living with Fifi had probably saved me in more ways than she realized. She never pushed when I wasn't ready to talk, never treated me like I was fragile, and somehow always knew when I needed company without me having to ask.

We carried our plates to the living room and spent most of dinner talking about everything except work until she suddenly snapped her fingers.

"Oh! I almost forgot."

I looked up.

"What?"

She grabbed her phone from the coffee table and turned the screen toward me.

"Do you remember Rita Lee?"

The name immediately pulled me back to a different time.

"Our neighbor in Ashwood?"

"The one and only."

"What about her?"

"She's getting married next weekend, and she tracked me down just to make sure you got an invitation."

I stared at the digital invitation for a few quiet seconds before shaking my head.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why?"

"You know why."

"Blaire, going back home isn't going to erase the good memories just because something terrible happened afterward."

I looked away.

"I haven't been back in years."

"Maybe that's exactly why you should go."

She reached over and gently squeezed my hand.

"You've spent the last three years surviving instead of living. You're fresh out of a relationship, you're barely sleeping, and every day you come home looking more exhausted than the day before. Maybe leaving the city for one weekend is exactly what you need."

I didn't answer immediately because a part of me wanted to refuse without thinking about it.

Going back to Ashwood meant facing memories I had spent years avoiding.

It meant revisiting the place where life had once been simple.

It meant remembering the version of myself that existed before everything changed.

And maybe...

That was exactly why I needed to go.