I bolt upright. My feet point towards the exit but my head swivels, watching Damien walk into the office.
“I’m always happy to make time for students who need me,” Aleffo calls after him, then stands back and waves me through the door.
All weekend, I prepared for a private confrontation, expecting our usual tussle. If I go in there, it’s just playing into his hands, and Aleffo is trained. He might see straight through my act.
I call Damien’s bluff and slam through the outer doors, pausing on the top step. Heads turn as curious students pass by and I wrap my arms tightly across my chest, feeling exposed.
Will he really tell him? Were all the months I spent hoarding pills for nothing?
I close my eyes and I’m back in the hospital bed, the bitter taste of failure coating my tongue. Then home, Bryan’s gaze growing heavier by the hour. Sitting in class with every giggle, every whispered conversation making my back prickle. Sleep offering no relief, phantom hands touching me while I lie paralysed.
Nausea swells, and I grip hold of the iron railing, opening my eyes.
I can’t go back to that.
I can’t.
Damien saunters through the double doors a minute later, radiating smugness as he joins me on the concrete steps, sitting and tugging my arm until I sit too. “You didn’t want a conversation with our helpful therapist?”
“Did you tell him?” My voice sounds ragged.
He frowns, then bumps his shoe against mine. “I can. Depends on whether you’re accepting my proposal.”
“Of course I’m not accepting it.”
“Pity.” He gives a long sigh. “Maybe I will have to inform the school about your intentions, then.”
My lips are numb. “If you say anything, I’ll go to the police and tell them you broke into my house. I’ll play the recording of you threatening me.”
He clicks his tongue. “Bit harsh, but you’ll need this.” He passes back my phone. I’d forgotten he had it. “Unfortunately for you, I deleted that recording already.”
“I have backups.”
“Yeah?” His voice is soft. “I really don’t think you do. But I suppose I’ll find out, won’t I?” There’s a rustle, then he pushes some papers into my lap. “Either way, you should probably read through these before you make a final decision.”
There’s no way my eyes will focus enough to read. I shove them back at him with trembling hands. “What are they?”
“A petition my dad’s lawyer drew up, asking the court to hand your care over to a welfare guardian.”
The term’s unfamiliar, but I can guess. A conservatorship by another name.
“You can’t do that.”
“Unfortunately, there’s a rather large gap between shouldn’t and can’t, and I think it’ll be fairly easy to prove you’re a danger to yourself.”
“No court’s going to hand my care over to a total stranger.”
“Of course they won’t. But your mother…?” He flashes his phone screen at me, nothing but a white blur. “Priscilla Boehm. That’s her, right?”
The world lurches. I can’t catch my breath. “How d’you know my mother?”
“Used to hang in the same circles as my father, apparently. And I know what you’re thinking”—he chuckles—“him being your dad too would be dramatic irony at its finest. But honestly? Even back then she was far older than his usual age range. We’re safe on that score.”
Dots swirl in my vision. “Good luck getting her to submit any paperwork.”
He rolls the papers into a tube and taps my head. “Luckily, she doesn’t need to. All we needed was her signature and we’ve got that.”
Each heartbeat is a punch. The edges of my vision darken. “You told her—”
