“What should we do with him, then?”
Zane escorts me to the door. “We leave him tied up and call Ant to dispose of him and sort out a cover story.”
He smiles at my look of disbelief that it can be that easy.
“Relax. This is what rich people do.”
ZANE
The drive home is made one-handed, my fingers refusing to release Avon’s hand, squeezing it tightly every time my jumpy nervous system needs reassurance that she’s there. That she’s okay.
Ant is on his way to Tiaki Academy and my father is on his way back from Wellington, flying to meet me at home.
“I should’ve listened to you,” she says, taking on blame she doesn’t deserve.
“None of this is your fault.” The words don’t register, but I know if I keep repeating them, one day they will. “I’m the one who owes you an apology. The moment I saw that text, I knew something wasn’t right, but I never followed through. I meant to have Ant check out his history and tell Miss Murewa their star catch of an art teacher was stepping out of line.”
She gently shakes her head, staring out the side window, then she scrunches her nose, holding back a laugh.
“What?”
“I’m imagining how that would’ve gone for you.” She wipes a few tears away with her spare hand, turning her watery smile towards me. “Telling on my favourite teacher and getting him into trouble.”
“Just another fault to add to my extensive list.”
I lean over, kissing the back of her hand while she stares aghast at the oncoming traffic. “Watch where you’re going, or you’ll have a driving ticket to explain as well.”
She rubs her temple and I’m instantly on alert.
“Do you need a doctor? I can have one come to the house.”
“No, it’s just a few bruises. The hit to my ego is worse.” She turns to look out the passenger window again. “I thought he genuinely rated my paintings.”
“Your art is good.”
She gives a soft snigger. “Your opinion is biased.”
I concede that point with a shrug. “But you’ll have no problem winning the Matthewson scholarship without his help. You’ll see.”
We pass over the bridge to my side of the river, and I have to release her hand long enough to navigate the series of intersections.
When I try to take her hand again, she has it curled on her lap, face pinched with worry. “Did you really understand my painting? That day in class when you… Or was it—”
“I’m sorry. I hate you have to question everything that passed between us and wonder if it was real.” My apology list isn’t anywhere I need it to be, but I speak from my heart. “My feelings for you were always genuine. I know what your painting was because I saw your face in the corridor with John and looking at your piece felt the same. Like being crushed so small you can’t work out how to fight back.”
The emotion wells inside me, the familiar knot behind my breastbone aching until I dig my knuckle into it, desperate for relief.
“I hate what I’ve done to you.” The words still aren’t right and I’m digging deeper when the phone rings.
My stomach drops.
It’s a corrections officer.
The fear slams into me as I answer the call, then listen.
“I’m on my way home, now. I’ll be there in five minutes.” Panic wells inside me. The fear that once again, I’ve done something that can’t be taken back.
Avon stares at me with a worried frown as I tuck my phone away. “Who was that?”
