He leaves a long pause, and I don’t know how to react, what he’s expecting. Where his claim is meant to take us. It’s preposterous.
Finally, Damien prompts, “What do you say?”
“About you being a”—I mouth the word murderer—“It’s a lot to process.”
“Not that.” His hands squeeze a little tighter. “The other bit.”
As if patricide couldn’t possibly be my chief concern. To be fair, it’s not that confession that’s spun me for a loop.
“I just need a minute. None of this seems real.” I stand, gently pulling my hands away from his. “And I still need the bathroom even more since you distracted me. The last thing I need is a UTI.”
“Would you like a guide?”
A laugh bursts out of me, far too high-pitched. “And stage a repeat? No, thanks.”
This time, I join the queue for the ladies rather than revisit the disabled bathroom.
My head is spinning from the last ten minutes. Damien’s murder confession horrifies me, but not for the reason it should. I’m horrified he trusts me enough to hand me evidence that could destroy him.
Shuffling closer to the bathroom, one place at a time, my head takes me back to the dusty classroom. Not the sex, but what came afterward. Damien’s strange reaction when I played my recording.
My threat hadn’t mattered. What affected him was that I hadn’t used the recording and destroyed him. Now he’s trusting me with more. With his life or at least a hefty chunk of it.
And a great weight lifts from me.
It’s not just a confession, it’s a promise he’ll try his best for us. If he hurts me tomorrow or in twenty years, I can hurt him right back.
Damien’s given me a lifelong guarantee.
The bathroom door swings open. Two girls exit and it’s my turn. The girl ahead vanishes into a stall, and I press doors until one pushes inwards. Locked inside, I sink onto the seat and withdraw my phone.
The recording’s still there. It’s already synched with the cloud.
It’s real.
A girl blows her hands dry, and the outer door creaks open. There’s a blast of distorted music, then someone roughly shouldering her way inside. Muffled voices, angry and female. The room fills with a weird fishy smell.
I store the phone in my bag, standing with my ear pressed against the stall door.
“Get out. All of you. Now.” It’s Chelsea. The sound is slurred, thick with tears or something else.
Footsteps scuffle. A younger girl whimpers, “But Chelsea, I really have to go—”
“I said get out!” There’s a sharp crack, like a palm slapping a porcelain sink.
More hurried footsteps, the stall doors opening and closing rapidly.
Silence falls again, but it’s different. Charged. Dangerous. I hold my breath, my body rigid against the stall door. I can hear her breathing. Ragged, uneven. The tap of shoes on tile as she paces closer.
My fingers close around the small canister in my purse, withdrawing it. My palm is sweaty. The smooth metal threatens to slide out of my grip, even after I wipe both hands on my dress.
The pacing stops right outside my stall. Her ragged breath just inches away.
“I know you’re in there, Ophelia.” Her voice is a low venomous drip. “Come out and face me. Or are you too much of a coward?”
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
“Fine.” The knob jiggles. “I’ll wait. You’ll come out, eventually.” She shifts position, leaning against the stall separator. “We can talk about how you ruined my life.”
