Fuck. Did I turn off the light? The scene needs it left on.
I pull on a new set of gloves and take the spare key from its kitchen hook. The lights are on. It’s fine.
But now I have two sets of footage with me pulling on gloves. I head for the surveillance monitors in a tiny room near Dad’s office. The angle hides me on the first one, and with the second, I loop two seconds over the suspicious behaviour, hoping it lookslike a camera glitch. The hallway footage takes more finessing, but it looks passable when I’m done.
There are so many small details that could trip me up and my head’s not in the game. Too many things happening in too short a time.
Hopefully tomorrow, I’ll wake with a clearer head. Tomorrow I can tell Ophelia I’m done with Chelsea. That I stood up to my father.
Even if the evidence draws a noose around my neck, I can spend my last days of freedom proving she’s better off alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
OPHELIA
By the timegrey morning light seeps through my curtains, my eyes burn with exhaustion. I drag myself through my morning routine on autopilot, fingers fumbling with the stiff fabric of my uniform, the collar scratching against my neck.
There’s no, “Ophelia? Breakfast!” this morning. No checking my mouth for pills. The slam of the connecting door echoes around the house long before I tiptoe downstairs.
Bryan’s coffee mug sits in the sink, its bitter aroma hanging in the air. My meds are trapped inside the pantry safe.
No note, no apology. Last night’s anger still hangs in the air.
The bus ride to school passes in a blur of beige houses and overcast sky. Earphones in, I play Bryan’s messages from the weekend, lowering the volume as the anger in his voice grows, my unease ballooning along with it.
I thumb into my contacts list and stare at my mother’s number. My only reaction is a small flutter in my stomach.
Relief.
I can stop holding out hope.
Her part in my life is done, and the finality leaves me calmer.
At school, Damien waits opposite my locker, slouching against the wall with casual arrogance. He wears a polo neck that’s part of our winter uniform, and when I sniff, all I get is soap. No trace of his usual cologne.
I clear my throat. “We need to talk.”
“Good morning to you too.” His lips curl into an infuriating half-smile.
“Don’t.” I grab his wrist, nails digging into his warm skin. The corridor buzzes with students, and the common room chairs are already full. I pull him into an empty classroom, the door clicking shut behind us.
“I’m in trouble. Bryan was furious last night, demanding to know who I was with.”
His eyebrows arch.
“Someone beat him up while he was out searching for me. He’s got a black eye, and…” My throat closes, words dying before they form.
Damien’s face remains maddeningly calm. “What did you tell him?”
“What did I…?” Disbelief clogs my throat. “I didn’t tell him anything. I lied and said I stayed over with a girl from school, but he didn’t believe me.”
“Then you should’ve lied better.” He shrugs, like this is nothing. “Make up a boyfriend or something. Some kid from another school.”
My fingers curl, nails biting into my palms. “This is all your fault. You told me he wasn’t there. If I’d known, I could’ve—”
“But he wasn’t there.” His voice hardens with certainty. “I watched him drive away, and he never came back, I swear. No one was in the house when I got you.”
“Then how did he know what happened?” The words burst from me, bouncing off classroom walls. “He wasn’t guessing. He said a boy carried me out of my room.”
