“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be fine by morning.”
His face is set in determined lines. “Let me call Abrams. He’ll clear a morning appointment for you.”
“No. I have school.” And third period is music, a lesson I don’t want to miss.
My father splutters out a laugh. “You’re kidding? Today you’ve decided you can’t miss school?”
I turn back, forcing my eyes wide even though they immediately water. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Your dutiful son to attend all his classes and get all his useless certificates?”
He ignores me, walking upstairs until he’s standing level. “If the police knock on my door, I’m done covering for you. Fuck up now and I won’t just let you take the fall, I’ll let them prosecute all the charges you’ve avoided.”
I close my eyes for a second, nose reclogging. His vitriol burns me along with the spray. “Jesus. I’ve got poison in my eyes and you’re threatening me with prison?” I shake my head. “What’s so upsetting about me doing exactly what you told me to do?”
“It’s never worked before.” His face is grim. “What are you really planning for tomorrow?”
I turn away and continue upstairs.
As I reach the landing, he calls after me, “If you’re showering, wear shorts and lean your body away from the water. You don’t want that shit getting on anything sensitive.”
Finally, some fatherly advice worth taking.
I don’t bother letting the water heat, getting under the spray as soon as I’ve pulled off my clothes. As the shower soothes the worst of the residual burn, I’m already planning my response tomorrow. The illegal spray can with her fingerprints sits in my glove box. My turn to use it as a weapon.
If Ophelia thought her attack tonight would end my pursuit, she’s gravely mistaken.
Early sunlight glaresthrough my front windshield the next morning, making my sensitive eyes ache. I’m parked four doors down from Ophelia’s house, waiting for her to leave.
My Friday morning schedule has two study periods back-to-back, the perfect time to go snooping. Even if it wasn’t, this was the plan in my head when I woke this morning, and working on instinct? That’s how I perform best.
Five minutes after Ophelia leaves for school on the bus, I approach her front door. My school blazer’s insignia is prominently displayed, just a classmate offering a ride if anyone asks.
The front door has a deadbolt and brass chain. Cheap but effective. The deadbolt I could get past, given enough time, but the chain requires another approach entirely.
My fingers trail along the house’s perimeter, probing beneath terracotta pots crusted with soil, above door frames, kicking at suspicious rocks in case they’re fake.
Nothing.
Each ground-floor window frame refuses to give under my gentle pressure. The aluminium cool and unyielding. The back door is a solid possibility, but the exposure to neighbouring houses makes me hesitate.
These suburban streets teem with retirees and stay-at-home parents, eyes perpetually searching for distraction.
An upstairs window catches my attention, sitting slightly ajar. Still latched, but a flexible piece of wire should see me right. My gaze traces a potential path, from bay window to drainpipe to eave.
I step back, eyes still fixed on the potential entrance, and my heel kicks something that rattles against the paving stone. A grinning ceramic frog with a rubber stopper in its base. I tug it free and a dull silver key falls into my palm.
Too easy.
Seconds later, the back door lock clicks open. Inside, the aroma of coffee and buttered toast fills the kitchen, making my stomach growl.
For a moment, I stand motionless, eyes closed, absorbing the forbidden atmosphere. The quiet hum of the refrigerator. The distant tick of a wall clock. This sensation—being where I don’t belong—has intoxicated me since I first wandered into my neighbours’ house, aged five.
The transgression. The intimacy of touching a stranger’s possessions.
A floral scent draws me to a cramped bathroom. Mildew blooms inside the medicine cabinet. Two toothbrushes rest in a crusty cup, bristles still damp.
Ophelia stood here an hour ago, water streaming down her pale skin. Her towel hangs on a heated railing, still damp, and I press it against my burning cheeks, inhaling deeply. The threadbare cotton carries her scent—something sweet with undertones of soap—and its touch soothes the lingering sting of pepper spray.
