Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
OPHELIA
Damien peels away from the curb the moment I step out of the car. The walk to my house seems longer than usual, wearing his borrowed clothes, the scent of cologne and sweat rich on my skin. My thighs ache with every step and my thoughts are floating thanks to the weed.
The back door opens with its familiar creak, and I slip inside, already rehearsing my excuse about the late hour, about staying with a friend to work on our music project.
Bryan usually goes to bed early on Sundays. He probably won’t…
The dining room light clicks on.
He sits at the table, hands folded in front of him like he’s been waiting. The lower half of his face is in shadow, and my breath hitches as he glares through his swollen left eye.
“Jesus.” My voice is tremulous, fingers plucking at my shirt. “What happened to you?”
Even the surrounding skin is puffy, bruised purple from temple to cheekbone. A cut splits his eyebrow, crusted with dried blood.
“Sit down.” His voice is cold.
I take the seat opposite, the farthest away.
“Where were you?”
His gaze fixes on me with unusual intensity. This isn’t a version of Bryan I’ve seen before, and my hands clasp together tightly under the table.
“I stayed over with a friend from school to work on a project.”
“Which friend?”
His voice sounds metallic, distant. “Sarah. From my music class.”
“Sarah.” He repeats the name like he’s testing it, rolling it around his mouth. “What’s her last name?”
“Morrison.”
Bryan’s fist slams onto the table, and I jump.
“Don’t.” His voice is strained. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”
My heart won’t slow down. I’ve seen Bryan frustrated, seen him tired from work, worn out by the burden of caring for me. But I’ve never seen him angry, never heard him angry except…
Except for the last phone call to my mother. Everything that happens from here on out is your fault.
The same fury that was in his voice then is in his expression now.
“I’m not—”
“Do you think I’m stupid, is that it?” The words are precise, each one landing like a blow. “I know you left the house on Friday with a boy. I want his name.”
I drop my eyes, hiding my guilty expression.
But Damien told me Bryan drove away before he came inside. It must be a bluff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice wavers, betraying me. “I told you, I stayed with Sarah.”
“Stop lying.” The chair flies backward as he stands, legs scraping on the linoleum.
I flinch and something flickers across his face. Satisfaction? Regret? It’s gone too quickly to tell.
He circles the table, and I lean away from him, my fingers gripping the edge of my seat. When he stops beside me, there’s alcohol on his breath. Not heavy, but present.
Bryan never drinks. He’s always on call for the extra money.
“I know some boy took you.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “I know you left with him Friday night and didn’t come back until now. So, you’re going to tell me who he is.”
“No, I…”
His hand catches my chin, tilting my face upwards. Not rough, but firm enough I can’t pull away.
“This is your fault. I got this”—he gestures to his eye—“because a guy mistook me for some creep hunting young girls. I spent all weekend searching. Every bar in the city, the hospital, even the community hall.”
His grip tightens fractionally. The story about his injury fits, but his tone, his barely restrained anger? It’s like he doesn’t see or hear me.
“I must’ve called your mobile twenty times, and you were… what? Laughing at my messages while some guy kicked the living shit out of me?”
“No! I didn’t have my—”
“Then you waltz through the door like nothing’s happened, and you lie? After everything I’ve done for you? After I took you in when nobody else would?”
“I’m sorry you got hurt.” My voice drops down, soft as I can. Deferent. Bowing my head, shoulders hunched as I make myself smaller. “But I’m home now. I’m safe.”
“You’re a liar.” His voice cracks on the accusation. “A boy took you from your bed on Friday night. I saw him. And how did he even get in the house, Ophelia? Because the doors were locked and I sure as hell didn’t let him in.”
His face is an inch from mine now. The pupil in his injured eye is dilated despite the harsh light. There’s something feral in his expression, something I’ve never seen before and don’t want to see again.
“Tell me the truth.”
My vision wavers, tears of fright filling my eyes. I can’t think what to say. He’s so angry. Any version I give him could be the wrong one.
I stick to the bare bones. “I’m eighteen, and I spent the weekend with a friend. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
For a long moment, we stare at each other. Then Bryan straightens, smoothing down his shirt with trembling hands.
“Go to your room.” The coldness returns to his voice. “We’ll discuss this again when you’re ready to tell the truth.”
I bolt from the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time. My hands shake as I prop the dresser chair under the handle as a makeshift lock.
It’s the safest I’ll get tonight.
Stepping away, I survey the room. Everything looks normal. My bed is unmade, sheets trailing on the floor. My school bag is still full of sheet music and textbooks from Friday’s lessons. The curtains hang half-open, letting in slivers of streetlight.
I rub my jaw where the imprints of Bryan’s fingertips still pulse. What happens if this is the final straw, and he throws me out?
My phone is under the pillow, the battery just under twenty percent. My hands shake so badly, it takes both to hold it steady.
I can’t call Damien. If I do, he’ll come running, but Bryan’s already in crisis, it could tip him right over the edge.
There’s only one other person I can think of. Someone who could help.
I open my recent contacts list and press my mother’s number.
It rings once, then a robotic voice comes on. “The person you’ve dialled is unavailable.”
I try again, typing the number out from memory this time. The same result.
She’s blocked me.
There’s no help coming. Whatever happens from now on, I’ll make happen myself.
Kneeling, I unlock the bottom drawer. The cash is still safely tucked in there and I relax back onto my heels, clasping the fat envelope against my chest.
The local campsite has cheap single cabins for rent. Whatever happens tomorrow with Damien, with Bryan, I have options.
I split the money, placing half in my schoolbag, half back in the locked drawer. Then I change into a t-shirt and sweats, needing more protection than my usual shirt.
When I crawl into bed, I take the bag under the covers with me, hugging it as my pulse settles back into its normal rhythm.
A talisman against trouble.