I rush for the door just as it bursts open. Ms Wilding, one of the supervising teachers, rushes inside.
“What in the world?” Her eyes dart from me, standing frozen, to Chelsea, sobbing on the floor.
“She had a knife.” I stumble past her into the corridor. Other people rush into the bathroom, and there’s the sound of running water in the sink, comforting murmurs as they assist Chelsea. “A knife,” I say again. “It’s somewhere on the floor.”
Ms Wilding is already on her phone, giving the address. “Main floor women’s restroom. We need police and ambulance here immediately.”
Damien’s scent reaches me a split second before his arm curls protectively around my shoulder. His expression is unreadable, but his body is taut, ready to spring.
He can’t get involved. Not with the police coming.
“She’s calling the cops.” My whisper is low and urgent. “You need to leave.”
Damien squeezes me tighter, his neck turning towards Chelsea, still on the floor, then back to me. He gives a single nod of understanding. “I’ll wait outside, follow you in the car if they arrest you.”
He presses a kiss on my lips, then releases me, his thumb brushing my wrist a second before he melts back into the hallway.
The bathroom door is now chocked open. Ms Wilding kneels by Chelsea, helping flush her eyes while avoiding the contaminated air. “It’s going to be okay. Help is coming.”
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder.
I lean against the wall, my shoulders shaking against the hard surface. The quick rush of adrenaline is fading, leaving me jittering and empty, Damien’s light touch lingering on my wrist.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
DAMIEN
The morningcold seeps through the thin merino wool of my tuxedo. I’m in the driver’s seat, engine off, eyes focused where the LED streetlights paint the police station entrance in sickly grey stripes. Every few minutes, another patrol vehicle rolls in or out, the parking lot bustling through the night.
The automatic doors open, and I stiffen, slumping back in disappointment when a man stumbles down the concrete ramp.
Ophelia’s protective impulse—warning me away from police scrutiny—warms me. Not just the affection but the way it showed her thinking.
Ten, fifteen minutes after hearing my murder confession, rather than turn me in, she took my side.
My phone buzzes with messages, a persistent vibration against my palm. Group chats explode with tonight’s gossip, all lit up with variations of the same story.
I scroll through notifications without really reading them, the footage already memorised. Chelsea wheeled out on astretcher, face swollen and red. Ophelia calmly walking beside a uniformed officer.
…she peppersprayed her! omg…
…anyone got the knife vid…
…chelsea bought a KNIFE to the ball psycho much…
The comments blur into meaningless noise.
I yawn and shift in the seat. Sleep only comes in stolen minutes, fitful dozes as the padded seat grows harder with every passing hour.
But Ophelia showed her support for me. I need to return it with a bigger gesture than the expensive lawyer I immediately hired.
Another incoming message.
I put my phone on silent, and switch into the camera gallery, scrolling back through weeks of surveillance. Ophelia walking to the bus stop. Grumpily stomping towards her locker. Curled on her side in bed.
My obsession documented in high-res images.
A video file snags my attention. Date-stamped the Friday I stole her pills. That night, I’d been out with Chelsea and hadn’t wanted to miss Ophelia’s discovery of my theft.
