And what I deserve is an upgraded pair of glasses.
I upload the five-figure quote and send that instead, turning my devices on silent so I won’t know if he replies.
Then I curl under the covers, my body stiff and uncomfortable. Their image burned in my retinas, so I see them even when I close my eyes.
I wakefrom a nightmare of groping hands and paralysed limbs, breathing heavily in the few seconds before I orientate back to reality.
When I do, I roll onto my back, groaning. The quote! What was I thinking?
Too late now.
I postpone turning on my devices until I’ve showered and dressed. My teeth clench when I finally give into the urge and check, but I needn’t have worried.
There’s no demand for an explanation. No reaction from Damien at all.
“Ophelia! Breakfast.”
I hurry downstairs and find Bryan waiting at the kitchen counter. He’s staring at a letter, unreadable from where I’m standing, but the red of an overdue stamp flashes as he folds it away.
“Here.” He presses three pills into my right palm, and a small glass into my left. The prescription bottles are already stored back in their pantry safe.
“Down the hatch,” I say like I do every morning.
And like every morning, I tongue the capsules between gumline and cheek, swallow a sip of water, then open my mouth wide, tongue waggling. The inspection is barely a glance today, a far cry from my first days back from hospital.
He cups my head, gently stroking the edge of my fading bruises from Friday—walked into a tree—then turns away. “Cereal’s on the table.”
With my back to him, I spit the pills into my palm, and shove them in my pocket, then sit, frowning at unfamiliar colours on the box.
“If you want the old brand,” he says in a tight voice, “tell your mother.”
“Just admiring the packaging.” I shake it into the waiting bowl, adding milk. “This looks good.”
I’m still swallowing claggy spoonfuls, when he emerges from his bedroom, tie in place. “Ten minutes or you’ll be late.”
The connecting door slams, and the garage door rumbles open. I add my bowl to the dishwasher, ear cocked for the clank of it closing, then slip into Bryan’s bedroom, the scent of his shaving gel still hanging in the air.
The cash is in the top drawer, under his tie collection like always, but it’s…
My pulse jumps.
There must be five hundred here. Usually it’s a hundred, tops.
A few USB flash drives are piled alongside and I pick up one, turning the hard plastic device over in my hands. Bryan works in IT. Could he be selling company secrets? I shake my head—he’s not the type—and replace it in the drawer.
The cash gives me more pause. If he’s doing gig jobs on the side, saving for something special, he might notice it’s gone.
Ignoring the pinch in my stomach, I peel off sixty and replace the rest, then race upstairs. Time is ticking.
My fingers trace the dresser’s chipped edge to the bottom drawer, unlocking it with the small key that hangs beside my pendant. One press on the false panel releases a spring, and I grope in the cavity behind for my stash of saliva-coated pills.
Adding today’s, I already have more than twice the number as last time, but if I try again, I need to be sure. I wouldn’t wish the aftermath of a failed attempt on anybody.
Drawer re-locked, I hurry downstairs. Cardigan. Bag. Then I’m outside, rushing for the bus, its arrival alert already buzzing my phone.
At school, I head straight for my locker, counting paces so I don’t have to feel for the raised numbers. Halfway along, Damien falls into step beside me.
“If it isn’t my little social stalker. Recorded anything good lately?”
