When I’d tuned into the feed the next morning, I caught her frantic reactions live.
At the time, I’d stopped recording and never checked the video, satisfied I’d seen what I wanted. Now it feels like a gift from past me. Hours of footage I’ve never reviewed.
Smiling already, I press play, forwarding to where she appears.
Bryan, her quasi-guardian, comes into the room for their nightly cocoa ritual. Ophelia’s already yawning when she changes into her sleep shirt. She collapses into bed and falls asleep within seconds, curled on her favourite side.
She doesn’t stir for the next thirty minutes. Forty minutes. My eyelids grow heavy watching her, my glances towards the station dwindling.
At forty-two minutes, her bedroom door swings open.
I jolt upright, muscles tensing, then relax as Bryan again steps into the frame. He’s fully dressed, including a leather jacket. He probably snuck out, just like he had the night I stole Ophelia from her room.
For a minute, he stands above her, just staring at the tiny movements of her sleeping form. I expect him to bend and kiss her goodnight. Maybe ruffle her hair.
He turns around and holds a finger to his lips.
My breathing shallows. He brought someonein? While she slept?
The chill in my car suddenly turns arctic.
A naked figure appears in the doorway, and my gut clenches like a fist. Deep indents score my palm, squeezing the screen tighter. Bryan signals something, gestures towards the bed and the nude man nods, his face eager.
The truth slams into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. This is why Ophelia got so upset.
I did this.Idid.
This fucking violation is thanks to me.
By the time this footage was recorded, I knew about the camera. I could’ve told her that Friday in class. I could’ve texted her a warning after meeting with Caylon.
If I’d just told her, this incident would never have happened. These abusers—these rapists—would have been staring at an empty bed.
Images burn behind my eyelids. Bryan. The naked man.The betrayal.A harsh claxon jolts me, and a stream of patrol cars exit the carpark. The morning shift.
The thought of Ophelia, sitting inside a police cell, oblivious, cuts through the red haze.
From experience, I know the station routine. She’ll be waking up now. Having breakfast.
Unless they’re holding her over for court on Monday, unlikely, the duty sergeant will soon explain her release conditions, have her sign for her possessions. She’ll exit down the closely watched ramp.
My phone screen goes blank as it bounces off the passenger seat onto the floor. Rage, cold and absolute, floods the vacuum left behind by shock.
The car engine roars and I speed through the empty streets, making my way to Bryan’s house.
I still have my duplicate key but if the locks have changed, I’m happy to bust through his windows with a great fucking rock.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
OPHELIA
The counter smellsof chemical cleaner, slightly sticky against my palms. I’m dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans that Damien’s lawyer brought along for me, wearing my taped pair of glasses. An officer, different from the one when I was first brought in, reads questions off a monitor in a drone, then slides paperwork across the counter.
“It was self-defence,” I grumble, a complaint I’ve made repeatedly through the night. “There’s no need for this inquisition.”
“You’ve been charged with Unlawful Possession and Carrying a Weapon with Intent.”
So much for the pawn shop owner’s claim that legality didn’t matter when, ‘you’ll only use it when someone else is already breaking the law.’
