The secretary shifts his feet, his nerves feeding into mine. “Can I check his office?”
“Sure.”
I wave at the hallway and Gregorie disappears, footsteps loud on the polished floorboards. His polite knock echoes along the passage.
I’m leaning against the counter, scrolling my phone, when he reappears, face creased with worry. “Have you got any messages from him?”
My snort is derisive. “Dad doesn’t contact me unless he’s expecting something.” I hand him my phone. “You can check.”
He does, visiting my messages, my emails, my notification history before returning it. “Let me know if you hear from him. There’s a stack of business contacts who’ve been trying to get in contact. He’s missing opportunities.”
“Will do.”
Even after his car engine fades along the driveway, my heart’s pumping. I force my glance away from the basement door and jog upstairs, immediately stepping onto the balcony.
The encounter was expected, but it still leaves me unsettled. Gregorie has always been an efficient handler behind the scenes. He’ll grow more tenacious the longer my father’s absent.
The chances of him lying undisturbed for a week suddenly feel infinitesimal.
I walk into my bathroom, checking my bruises in the mirror. My head wound still isn’t noticeable, just a shadow near my temple, but my neck…?
The handprints are clear. The darker shadows where Dad’s fingertips sunk into my skin, the rough red marks across my windpipe. Another piece of evidence that needs time.
Shaking myself, I shower, then lie on my bed, thoughts immediately landing on Ophelia. All day, my mind’s been touching on her and flinching away like she’s a sore tooth.
I check her social media on my phone and can’t find her profiles. She’s blocked me.
My thumb hovers over the camera feed of her room, but I don’t click it. Just like I don’t click into the tracking device I had installed.
Those instincts are why she broke it off with me. I delete both apps, but the strange pressure in my chest—the sensation that lodged there when she said we were done—just grows.
If these are the emotions everyone raves about, I’d welcome back the friction.
A few calls come through on my father’s line during the evening, and I let them ring out. He’s never allowed me to answer his private line.
At twilight, I wander through the native bush behind the house, feet sinking into the mossy ground, jeans leg growing damp from the dewy silver ferns. I’m half-tempted to set up camp out here, sleep among the nocturnal rustling, but the play is ‘appear normal.’
I reluctantly head back inside.
Ophelia’s not in class on Tuesday. My eyes jerk to the door every time it opens, scowling when it’s a different student.
When I reach my car after final bell, Cam’s waiting beside it.
My chest tightens. “Have you seen Ophelia?”
“No.” He tugs at his collar. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk about.” He passes me his phone. “She sent me this message, saying if I ever follow her again, she’ll report me for stalking.”
I scan the text, and hand it back to him.
“Like, you pay me well, but I can’t afford to lose this scholarship. It’s my entire future.”
“You’re good.” I manage a wan smile. “Permission to stand down.”
When I arrive home, our main cleaner waits in the lobby, her face creased with worry lines.
“Gregorie came and questioned me while you were in school.” She tugs at her frayed cuffs. “He insisted on looking all over the house, even when I said he needed permission. Even looking at the camera feeds.”
My stomach tightens, but the basement has no cameras, and he needs a password for previous recordings.
