“Okay.” I shrug, and her posture softens. “And did he find him?”
“No. He’s not here.” Her eyes glance across my neck, and I tug my collar higher. Her expression grows concerned. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Don’t worry.” I pat her shoulder. “You did the right thing, and I’ll tell my father that if he complains.”
Her taut expression relaxes.
On Wednesday, my car purrs into its usual space and I scan the grounds for Ophelia’s slight figure, the white hair that always catches the light.
Nothing.
First bell rings and I move through the hallways with my usual confidence, but my eyes are searching, hunting. At lunchtime, I check the library. Empty. Then the disused bike sheds.
My memory supplies an image of her on her knees. I blink and there’s no one there.
Just before fifth period, I see her walking across the quad, between classes, wearing her taped glasses. A boy’s at her side, talking animatedly, and she laughs, placing a light hand on his forearm.
During economics, I pour over the online registry, finally landing on his image. Basil Crawford. Captain of the swim team.
His shoulders are broad enough to block doorways, and he has a smile that must get him laid on the regular.
What the fuck is Ophelia doing on his radar?
I have no clue, but at Thursday lunchtime, she’s sitting at the swim team table. I watch them covertly, using my phone as a video and a shield, my lunch forgotten on the table in front of me.
Basil’s talking, gesturing with his hands like he’s telling a story. And Ophelia…?
Ophelia is listening.
Not just the polite, minimal engagement she gives to teachers. She’s participating in the conversation. Her mouth moves, words I can’t hear from this distance. Basil throws his head back and laughs, genuine and loud, and something in my chest cracks.
She’s smiling. A small smile, cautious and hesitant, but real.
My hands are shaking. I drop my lunch in the bin and head for the bathroom, needing privacy before my composure slips even more.
On the way, my gaze lands on Chelsea.
For once she’s not looking at her phone or examining her manicure or holding court. Her eyes narrow on Ophelia with the focus a cat gives a spring fledgling. When Basil glances at her table, she catches his eye and nods.
Just once. Barely noticeable.
I should have seen it coming. Cam reported a handful of intercepted pranks over the past few weeks, frustrating Chelsea and her friends at every turn. Now she’s orchestrating something, using Basil as her instrument. God knows what he owes her.
She’s vicious but predictable and Ophelia is experienced enough to avoid her bully’s schemes by herself.
In the bathroom mirror, my reflection looks calm. Composed. The mask is still in place, even if it feels like it’s melting from the inside.
At least Ophelia’s here today.
She’ll be in music, unable to ignore me.
But Van der Valk looks up when I enter the room, his expression carefully neutral. “Mr Kade. Please take a seat in the back.”
His request makes me frown before I process what I’m seeing.
Front row, centre, Ophelia sits with her back straight and her hands folded on the desk. The seat next to her is filled with Van der Valk’s belongings, his battered leather briefcase on the chair, his jacket draped over the back. The desk holds stacks of sheet music and a coffee mug.
She doesn’t turn around, even when I hesitate right beside her. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
