“She doesn’t want me.”
“Really?” He nudges my shoulder with his. “I can’t imagine anyone not wanting you. I’ve wanted you fifteen times just this lesson.”
I roll my eyes and turn back to the task, but he snatches my tablet, holding it beyond my reach.
“She’s a narcissist, okay? I cramp her style.”
I stretch out my palm, but Damien pulls back further, the iPad reflecting the strident classroom lights as he holds it above my head. “In what way?”
“Men stopped asking if we were sisters and started asking for my number, so the last time she went overseas, she left me behind.” My facial muscles tighten and I fight the reaction, smoothing away the hurt before Damien sees. “They have an agreement, but she never pays Bryan what she should.”
“She sounds awful.”
“Yeah.” My spine stiffens defensively. “And I guess your mother is Mary Poppins, then?”
“She’s dead.” The words are matter-of-fact. “Car crash. It caught fire and took hours before the fire crew could pull her out.”
“Oh, my god.” My fingers pinch the skin at the base of my throat, tugging, twisting. “I’m so sorry. What a terrible accident.”
“Accident?” He tilts his head, eyebrows knitting together as he studies me. “A few months before, she’d hired a divorce lawyer smart enough to overturn the prenup. Dad had her killed so he wouldn’t have to pay.”
There’s no air in my lungs. Around us, the class continues as normal—pens scratching, students softly talking—but I’m frozen in place.
Nothing about him betrays any horror. No trembling lip or haunted eyes. He recites the story with the detachment of a newsreader.
“I… I’m so sorry. I…”
“Don’t be.” Bored now. “She didn’t like me much, and the feeling was mutual.”
His words smack of bravado and with anyone else, I’d offer comfort, a hug, holding them while they wept. Nothing about Damien says he’s upset, but it’s his mother. He must feel something, even if it’s buried deep inside.
He’s stillhuman.
My fingers wrap around his and squeeze. His skin is warm against my palm, his knuckles smooth, and I don’t let go for the rest of the lesson.
When the bell rings, we head to separate classes, and my English lesson passes in a blur. I can’t concentrate, the teacher’s voice fading beneath the echo looping in my head.Car crash. Dad had her killed.
The day ends and I’m still unsettled. Rather than catch the bus, sitting still for the forty-minute journey home, I walk along the cycle track, connecting with the path through the park.
Each step revitalises me, breathing fresh air deep into my lungs and exhaling the tangle of emotions his whispered confession awoke.
My muscles tense as I near the site of Chelsea and Alyssa’s last attack, and a rustle of clothing makes me turn. The path appears empty, but anyone could be standing in place behind me, fading into the blur.
Prickles run across the back of my neck.
Something moves in the corner of my eye.
I bolt for the Scout’s shed, ducking behind and around the corner, cheek pressed against the flaking paint. The unmistakable noise of poorly disguised footsteps follows me.
They’re heavy. Too deliberate for Chelsea’s predatory grace.
Fighting the tremble in my fingers, I extend my phone beyond the corner, filming blind for a few seconds, then playing it back.
A hulking figure fills the screen, his shoulder brushing the wall, tiptoeing towards me.
The rugby player from lunchtime.
Call Damien. He’ll help.
