You Didn’t Hear This From Me

The first afternoon of cleaning accomplished nothing.

Tomas sprayed the wall with everything the custodian’s closet offered. Industrial cleaner. Degreaser. Something blue that smelled strong enough to remove memories.

None of it worked.

The markings smeared. Dulled. Bled sideways into the paint. By the end of the hour, the hallway looked worse than when he started.

The supervising art teacher’s expression made it clear she had noticed.

The second afternoon began the same way.

Tomas crouched beside the bucket and reached for another bottle.

Stop.

His hand paused.

“What?”

The chemicals aren’t working.

“You noticed.”

I was giving you time to reach the conclusion independently.

“That’s generous.”

Red shifted against Tomas’s back.

Wet the cloth.

“With what?”

Water.

Tomas stared at the row of industrial cleaners.

“I tried water yesterday.”

Yesterday, you were alone.

Tomas looked over his shoulder.

The hallway was empty except for rows of lockers and the symbols stretching along the wall.

“I’m never alone anymore.”

Red ignored that.

Put your hand against the marking.

Tomas wet the cloth in his bucket and pressed it flat against one of the symbols.

Nothing happened.

“Impressive.”

Quiet. I’m trying to remember.

“That inspires confidence.”

The violet glow beneath Red’s repaired side brightened.

Tomas felt warmth spread between his shoulder blades.

Then pressure.

It traveled through his shoulder, down his arm, and into the hand pressed against the wall.

His headache stirred.

Not pain yet.

A warning.

Now wipe.

Tomas moved the cloth.

The symbol vanished.

It didn’t smear.

It didn’t fade.

One moment, the groove curved through the paint.

The next, there was only clean brick.

Tomas stared.

“You did that.”

We did.

“You have cleaning powers?”

That is an insulting description of what just happened.

Tomas wiped the next symbol.

Violet warmth moved through him again.

The marking disappeared.

Two girls passed behind him. They slowed, whispered, and laughed.

To them, Tomas was scrubbing paint from a wall.

Nothing more.

He didn’t look back.

“I’ll be here all afternoon if you want autographs.”

The girls laughed harder as they continued down the hallway.

Don’t let it bother you.

“Easy for you to say. Nobody laughs at a talking bookbag.”

If people could hear me, I’d be a sensation. Interviews. Merchandise. My own podcast.

Tomas wiped another symbol away.

The pressure behind his eyes increased.

“Is this hurting you?”

Red hesitated.

Not exactly.

“That means yes.”

It’s using the connection between us.

“So it’s hurting me.”

Also not exactly.

“My headache disagrees.”

Red’s straps tightened.

There’s something else.

Tomas stopped wiping.

“What?”

Those markings were boundaries. Part of the Collector reaching into this world.

“We already know that.”

I was wrong.

Tomas looked at the remaining symbols.

Red’s voice dropped.

They aren’t only boundaries. They’re a claim.

“A claim on you?”

On whatever answered.

Tomas looked at the clean section of wall.

“And we just answered.”

Erasing it is a refusal.

“What happens if we leave it?”

The door remains open.

Tomas considered that.

Then pressed the cloth against the next symbol.

“Guess we’re saying no.”

Collectors don’t enjoy that word.

The marking vanished.

“That makes two of us.”

“That wall’s coming along.”

Tomas turned.

Mr. Gramble stood a few feet away.

He was the tallest person Tomas knew, but he didn’t loom. He occupied space as though the building had been designed around him and everyone else had arrived later.

A ring of keys hung from one hand.

His gray custodian’s shirt had his name stitched over the pocket.

GRAMBLE.

His eyes moved from Tomas to the clean wall.

“What are you using?”

“Water.”

Mr. Gramble looked at the bucket.

“Must be good water.”

Tomas didn’t answer.

Mr. Gramble walked closer and examined the faint shadows left by the symbols Tomas hadn’t touched.

“You didn’t make this mess,” he said.

Tomas froze.

Mr. Gramble continued studying the wall.

“But you’re the one cleaning it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That counts for something.”

He moved toward the lockers.

Red tightened against Tomas.

He saw.

“Saw what?”

More than he should have.

Mr. Gramble stopped at the first locker. Instead of using the keys in his hand, he pulled a small screwdriver from his back pocket.

Its black handle had been worn smooth.

He pushed the tip into the seam beside the latch.

Twisted.

Click.

The locker opened.

“These were cheaper,” he said. “School board thought they were being smart.”

He closed the door and opened the next locker the same way.

“Turns out every one of them has the same weakness.”

“Why not use your keys?”

“Keys leave records.”

Mr. Gramble tapped the screwdriver against the locker.

“This leaves doubt.”

Tomas glanced toward the security camera above the hallway intersection.

Mr. Gramble followed his gaze.

“Cameras only work near the doors. If they caught you the other night, it wasn’t with that one.”

“How do you know?”

“I work here.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Mr. Gramble smiled.

“No. It doesn’t.”

He opened another locker.

Inside sat a pink folder decorated with cartoon cats. Mr. Gramble removed it and carried it two lockers down.

“What are you doing?”

“Improving the educational environment.”

He slid the folder between two textbooks and closed the door.

“The girl who owns that will accuse the girl who owns this locker. They already dislike each other.”

“You’re starting a fight.”

“I’m creating an opportunity.”

“For what?”

“To see who they really are.”

Mr. Gramble opened another locker.

This one Tomas recognized.

A hand-drawn crown covered the inside of the door. A football decal had been placed beneath it. The shelves were unusually clean.

Bryce’s locker.

Mr. Gramble moved aside a sweatshirt.

Two cheap phone chargers lay beneath it. Neither matched the expensive phone Bryce carried at school.

Mr. Gramble picked up a torn piece of cardboard.

The empty packaging from a prepaid phone.

He turned it over once and put it back.

“Interesting boy,” he said.

Tomas stepped closer.

“Bryce?”

“He understands inventory.”

“What inventory?”

Mr. Gramble glanced at him.

“The kind you don’t keep where teachers, parents, or dogs might look.”

Tomas stared at the phone packaging.

“Are you saying he’s selling something?”

“I’m saying boys who never call anyone shouldn’t need so many phones.”

Mr. Gramble closed the locker.

Tomas looked toward the hallway Bryce used every morning.

“What kind of phones?”

“The kind you use until someone starts asking questions.”

Mr. Gramble moved to the next locker.

“You should pay attention to what people carry, Tomas. Not what they show everyone. What they hide.”

Red’s voice lowered.

I dislike him.

“Why are you telling me this?” Tomas asked.

Mr. Gramble stopped.

He looked at Red.

Then at Tomas.

“I watch people.”

“That sounds creepy.”

“Usually is.”

Mr. Gramble opened another locker and moved a notebook from the top shelf to the bottom.

“I watch you talk to that bag. Everyone thinks it’s nerves. Imagination. Attention.”

His mouth twitched.

“But you aren’t pretending for yourself. You’re pretending for them.”

Tomas felt his pulse quicken.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do.”

Mr. Gramble tapped Tomas lightly in the center of his chest.

The contact sent an electric sensation through him.

Red went silent.

Mr. Gramble leaned closer.

“Same way your mother runs half this town without ever raising her voice.”

“My mother runs a farm.”

Mr. Gramble smiled.

“Tell her about me.”

“Why?”

“I’m tired of polishing floors for pocket change. Ready for something bigger.”

“You want a job?”

“I want an introduction.”

Footsteps sounded at the far end of the hallway.

Mr. Gramble looked up.

Principal Duong appeared around the corner.

His eyes moved immediately to the open locker.

Then to the screwdriver in Mr. Gramble’s hand.

Mr. Gramble pressed it into Tomas’s palm.

Fast.

Smooth.

By the time Principal Duong reached them, the locker was closed and Tomas held the evidence.

Mr. Gramble nodded toward the wall.

“Mr. Calder is making progress.”

Duong’s gaze dropped to the screwdriver.

“What’s that?”

Tomas looked at Mr. Gramble.

Mr. Gramble looked pleasantly confused.

“Loose plate on the cleaning cart,” he said. “Tomas offered to tighten it.”

Principal Duong studied them.

Neither moved.

After a moment, he continued down the hallway.

Mr. Gramble waited until the footsteps disappeared.

“You can keep that.”

“You gave it to me so you wouldn’t get caught.”

“Two things can be true.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Tell your mother it’s an introduction.”

Mr. Gramble clapped Tomas once on the shoulder.

“Good man.”

He walked away, whistling an old tune.

Tomas stared at the screwdriver.

That is evidence, Red said. Actual evidence. Please explain why you’re still holding it.

“He knows about Bryce.”

He insinuated things about Bryce. That isn’t the same as knowing.

“He knew about the phones.”

He also rearranges children’s belongings to manufacture resentment.

Tomas opened Red’s small front pocket.

What are you doing?

“Putting it somewhere safe.”

I object to being used as an evidence locker.

“It isn’t going near the stones.”

Tomas placed the screwdriver inside the separate pocket and closed the zipper.

Deeply concerned.

“You liked him.”

I would rather be left in the dark.

Tomas looked at him.

Red’s straps tightened.

Too far.

“A little.”

Tomas returned to the wall.

“Something amusing about your punishment, Mr. Calder?”

Tomas’s smile died.

Coach Chad stood at the end of the hallway with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm. His whistle rested against his chest.

Same squared shoulders.

Same practiced disappointment.

Same expression that said he had already decided what sort of boy Tomas was.

Red went still.

The day continues to improve.

“Sorry, Coach.”

“No need for the attitude.”

“No attitude. Just efficiency.”

Coach Chad approached the cleaned section of wall.

“You’ve made progress.”

Tomas waited.

Praise from Chad never arrived alone.

“There’s been some discussion,” Chad continued.

“About what?”

“How certain matters were handled. Optics.”

Optics, Red repeated. Adult language for someone important noticed.

Chad adjusted the whistle.

“Your family carries weight in this town.”

“My mother didn’t ask for anything.”

“No. Of course not.”

Chad’s smile appeared.

Quick.

Artificial.

“This is simply me being proactive.”

Tomas said nothing.

“As it happens, the school’s checkers tournament is next week.”

Tomas blinked.

“We’re short a player,” Chad continued. “I thought it might be a good opportunity for you to represent the school.”

“Me.”

“A fresh start.”

Red considered that.

He wants your mother’s name wearing school colors.

Tomas looked at Chad.

“You want me on the team because of my mother.”

“I want you because you have potential.”

“You didn’t notice that until yesterday?”

Chad’s jaw tightened.

The answer had landed.

“This is an opportunity, Tomas.”

“For who?”

Chad shifted the clipboard beneath his arm.

“Think about it.”

“I will.”

Coach Chad lingered for half a second, waiting for gratitude.

None arrived.

He nodded to himself and walked away.

Red watched him go.

Fresh starts are usually old games with new pieces.

Tomas pressed the cloth against another marking.

“You think I should do it?”

Yes.

That surprised him.

“Why?”

Because men like him become careless when they think you’ve accepted the invitation.

The symbol disappeared.

Tomas smiled.

“Sometimes you sound like my mother.”

Your mother would have stabbed Mr. Gramble with that screwdriver.

“She would not.”

Not fatally.

Tomas snorted.

The remaining symbols vanished one by one.

Each removal sent a pulse through Tomas’s head. By the final section, the pressure behind his eyes had become a steady ache.

He pressed the cloth against the last curved line.

Violet warmth moved down his arm.

The mark fought.

For one second, it seemed to press back against his hand.

Then it disappeared.

The hallway changed.

Not visibly.

The fluorescent lights remained steady. The lockers stayed closed.

Something had released.

Something else had noticed.

Tomas lowered the cloth.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He jumped.

The rag slipped from his hand.

Courtney stood several feet behind him with both hands tucked into her jacket pockets.

Her head tilted slightly.

Not amused.

Not curious.

Observant.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I didn’t mean to sneak.”

Be cool, Red whispered.

Tomas picked up the rag.

“What’s up?”

Courtney looked at the places where the symbols had been.

Faint shadows remained along the wall, visible only when the light struck them from the side.

Then her eyes moved to Red.

“If you don’t like people making fun of you, why do you talk to your bookbag in public?”

Tomas froze.

“There was no one here.”

Courtney looked down the hallway.

“There is now.”

Selective audience, Red said. High standards.

Courtney raised one eyebrow.

“Hello to you too, my dearest friend.”

Because I’m irresistible. Funny. Charming. Emotionally available.

“Right,” Courtney said. “That explains it.”

She stepped toward the wall.

“You cleaned it quickly today.”

“Red helped.”

Courtney’s expression changed.

“How?”

“He directed his energy through me.”

Her eyes went immediately to Tomas’s face.

“Headache?”

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Manageable.”

“That means bad.”

“Probably.”

Courtney studied the last shadow on the wall.

“Did it fight when you erased it?”

Red went rigid.

Tomas felt the chill move along his spine.

“The last one did.”

Courtney closed her eyes briefly.

“What?”

She looked at Red.

“You answered it.”

“We know,” Tomas said.

Courtney’s attention snapped to him.

“You knew?”

“Erasing the marks refused the claim. Leaving them would’ve kept something open.”

Red shifted.

That was the choice.

Courtney looked along the clean wall.

“What exactly did the markings say?”

Tomas frowned.

“You don’t know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”

“The Collector made them.”

“Yes.”

“You can read them.”

Courtney hesitated.

“I could if they were still here.”

Red’s zipper tightened.

It wasn’t merely a claim.

Tomas looked down.

“What?”

It was written for someone specific.

Courtney nodded.

“Collectors don’t only claim objects. They announce who they intend to take them from.”

Tomas’s stomach dropped.

“Then it was about Red.”

It always is.

Courtney’s gaze moved toward the principal’s office.

“Did anyone photograph the wall?”

“The school did. Mr. Duong showed the pictures to my mother.”

“Those photographs matter.”

“They’re in the principal’s office.”

Courtney reached for Tomas’s arm.

“Then we need them.”

A door slammed at the end of the hallway.

“Tomas.”

Kay stood beneath the exit sign.

Arms crossed.

Her presence filled the corridor like pressure before a storm.

Her eyes moved from Tomas to Courtney.

Then stopped.

“I thought we were finished with this.”

Courtney didn’t flinch.

She stopped like someone reassessing terrain.

“We were talking,” Tomas said.

“We’re finished,” Kay replied. “Now we’re leaving.”

Courtney glanced at Tomas.

Then Red.

The look wasn’t hungry.

It wasn’t calculating.

It was worried.

“I don’t have much time,” she said. “If you don’t believe anything else, believe that.”

Kay stepped forward.

“You don’t decide how much time my son has.”

“I’m not here for him.”

Kay’s gaze sharpened.

“That’s what people say before everything goes sideways.”

Courtney took a breath.

“I’m here for Red.”

The hallway contracted around them.

Tomas tightened his hold on Red’s strap.

“You don’t get to just take him.”

“I don’t want to.”

Courtney turned toward Tomas.

“I would have asked. I tried to get you to trust me.”

“You lied.”

“I withheld things.”

“That’s lying with better posture.”

Courtney nodded.

“Fair.”

Kay laughed once.

Quiet.

Unkind.

“You walked into my world wearing lies. Now you want honesty as if it’s owed to you.”

Courtney looked at Kay’s hands.

Recognized the threat.

Adjusted.

“The bag is marked,” she said. “Whatever is inside it has been claimed. The writing was a signal.”

Red tightened against Tomas.

She’s right.

Kay didn’t blink.

“You’ll need more than spooky warnings.”

“When the Collector comes, it won’t stop with Tomas.”

“The what?”

Courtney hesitated.

Too late.

Kay moved between her and Tomas.

Courtney reached toward Red.

Kay caught her wrist.

Fast.

She turned Courtney’s arm and guided her into the lockers, pinning her there with controlled pressure across the shoulder.

Metal rattled.

Courtney drew a sharp breath.

She could have resisted.

Tomas saw it in the way her free hand moved.

The slight turn of her hips.

The calculation in her eyes.

She chose not to.

“You reach for my son again,” Kay said, “and the next lesson hurts more.”

“I wasn’t reaching for Tomas.”

“You were reaching through him. That counts.”

Courtney stopped struggling.

“I didn’t want it to happen this way.”

“Then leave.”

Courtney looked at Tomas.

“You’re running out of time. Both of you.”

Kay released her.

Courtney straightened slowly.

“I could have taken Red at the school,” she said. “I could have taken him while you slept on the porch.”

Tomas went still.

“I didn’t.”

She looked at Red.

Not possession.

Not hunger.

Recognition.

“That should tell you something.”

Courtney walked away.

The exit doors closed behind her.

Kay waited until she was gone.

Then she took Red’s strap in one hand.

Protective.Possessive.

“You don’t talk to her again.”

Tomas nodded.

“You don’t follow her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You don’t get curious.”

Tomas looked down.

Kay exhaled.

Some of the hardness left her face.

“Let’s go home.”

They started toward the doors.

Red waited until Kay moved several steps ahead.

She was telling the truth.

Tomas swallowed.

“I know.”

She chose not to fight your mother.

“I saw.”

That may be the most convincing thing she’s done.

Tomas looked back.

The cleaned wall gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights.

Blank.Innocent.

As if nothing had ever been written there.

Far beyond the school, something felt the final mark disappear.

And understood the answer.