“Okay. Guess I could sit with the swim team.”
“Great idea.” Damien waits until Basil’s gone, then guides me across the room, tapping my arm to stop while he pulls out a chair. “The view’s much better from here.”
“Always my top consideration.”
His fingers drum out a fast rhythm. “I’ve been thinking…”
“Did it hurt?” I glance around but can’t tell the circulating waiters from the students. “I’m not listening to another word until I have a drink.” Maybe five.
He grabs my hands between his. “What if I gave you a reason to trust me? What if I put my life in your hands?”
I bite my bottom lip, then shake my head. “What do you mean?”
“Your phone.”
It’s the first I realise he didn’t ask for it earlier. I withdraw it from my bag, holding it towards him, but he shakes his head. “You’ve still got one-touch recording set up?”
“Always.”
With it activated, he bends forward, speaking directly into the mic. “My name’s Damien Kade, and I murdered my father.”
For one long appalled moment, I’m stunned. Motionless. Silent.
Then the volume of the room skyrockets, student noise pressing in from all sides.
“Shh.”
I whip the phone away from him, glancing around the room, but without any glasses, I don’t have any idea if people around are eavesdropping. If they can hear a single word he says.
“It’s fine.” His hands guide mine back until they’re steady in front of him. “No one else can hear us above the music.”
He bends closer to the mic again.
“Alexander Kade’s body is still in the basement at home, waiting to be discovered.”
My pulse skips ahead of the dance beat as Damien elaborates on his confession. Detailing the physical struggle, the unplanned killing. The meticulously staged scene afterwards.
Everything from the robe his father wore to the specific knots Damien tied in the cord around his neck.
When he’s done, he stops the recording, leaving the phone in my hands.
“Is this a joke?”
There’s the low whisper of his exhalation.
“You know it isn’t.” His fingers close around my hand, warming it from its sudden chill. “Now you have everything you need to destroy me. There’s no timeline where my confession won’t prompt a murder investigation. No judge bent enough they won’t send me to prison.”
I tuck the phone into my bag, a more dangerous weapon than the replacement can of pepper spray already stored in there. “Why would you do this?”
“Because I’m not playing games with you. Not any longer.” His hand briefly cups my cheek, then he sits back. “Keep it. Delete it. Whatever is right for you, and you don’t have to decide now. This will still work in ten years or fifty.”
“Fifty?” I snort out a laugh. “Steady on.”
“Yes, fifty. At least.” He takes both my hands in his. “I love you, Ophelia Boehm.”
Pretty words. My heart stutters in my chest. “You can’t love me. You don’t feel emotions, remember?”
“Slight correction. I thought I couldn’t, but it turns out I was just surrounded by immensely unlovable and unfeeling people. Won’t be making that mistake again.”
