“Thanks for that.” I clap Cam’s shoulder, then nod at his tux. “You should clean up before the crowds arrive.”
Once he’s through the door, I test the squirt gun, then store it in my inside pocket. The ink sloshes quietly as I walk back around the building.
A few students have arrived out front now, some still posing, taking advantage of the lull. Others are joking around on the steps, waiting for friends or dates. There’s no sign of Chelsea’s distinctive dark curls and designer dress.
I take my previous position at the side of the steps.
Soon enough, a limousine turns the corner, long and black and ostentatious, the Impaglia company logo discreetly embossed on the side.
I step forward the moment it pulls to a stop, yanking the door open before the chauffeur can emerge, pulling out the gun.
Chelsea is mid-laugh with Alyssa, then her eyes abruptly widen. “Damien? What are—”
“You just don’t listen, do you?” I empty the entire thing into the backseat.
Ink sprays across Chelsea’s dress, her hair, dripping down her impeccably make-up like black tears. It splatters Alyssa, sitting next to her, some spray even hitting the two boys in the facing seat.
The smell fills the car, amplified in the enclosed space.
I plant my foot inside and grab Chelsea’s chin, forcing her eyes to meet mine. “I warned you. I told you what would happen if you went ahead with your plans.”
The fake gun bounces off the footpath behind me, and her very real switchblade is now in my hand.
Alyssa screams, fumbling with the door handle.
The limo lurches forward, and the knife jolts from my hand as I jump clear, the vehicle speeding smoothly away. Probably for the best. A public murder won’t help me right now.
I peel off my gloves, dropping them into the nearest rubbish bin, then tug down my cuffs and straighten my tie.
A sense of calm suffuses me. The threat to Ophelia is gone. Now it’s time to enjoy the evening.
Students stare, but I’ve already paid the security guard to look the other way, and the next most official person is the photographer. When I glance over, he jerks his attention back to his lens, concentrating on the job at hand.
At the door, I hand across my ticket, and head inside.
The ballroom is festooned with the same colour streamers and balloons as outside, blue, black and white. A waiter circulates with a tray of wine glasses, and after an envious stare at the cheap bubbles on offer, I choose a sparkling water instead.
Half an hour later, I’m still waiting.
My gaze continuously sweeps across the tables, searching for a flash of white hair among the sequins and suits. Ears tuned for the low melody of her voice.
It’s Basil I see first, taller than most of the room, his swim-team shoulders awkward in a tuxedo. Then the crowd parts, allowing me a view of Ophelia.
Midnight blue silk clings to her body, the neckline plunging between her breasts, held with a clasp. When she turns, the back is non-existent. She’s not wearing her glasses, and her exposed face is somehow worse than the copious amounts of bare skin.
I set my glass down, water sloshing over the rim. I need the bathroom.
I follow the signs, resting in the corridor outside with my head back against the wall, hands clenched while I wait.
Sure enough, there’s soon the distinct tap-tap, tap-tap of Ophelia’s cane, even though she doesn’t really need it. Not with half the guests still to arrive.
She turns the corner, and the bulbous cane tip swipes the side of my shoe. She stops, head tilting until her eyes temporarily stabilise, then smacks it against my shoe again, deliberate.
“Excuse me. Could you move out of my way?”
My eyes devour her, lingering on the handbag that dangles from her shoulder on a silver chain. “Tell me something. Did you leave off your glasses because you wanted to drive every boy crazy with your beauty or was your cane an excuse to bring along a larger handbag?”
“You think I’m beautiful?”
