Pure

Chapter 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

OPHELIA

I take a sip of wine then can’t swallow, swishing it around my mouth while my throat stays locked tight. From this distance, I can barely make out the doorway leading to the bathrooms, but my eyes are fixed in that direction, waiting for Damien.

“Ophelia?” Basil nudges me. “You okay?”

“Sorry.” I blink, forcing my attention back on the boy beside me. “Just thinking about”—my mind casts around for the last words I remember—“swim times. That’s an impressive improvement.”

He grins. A boy who loves swimming with an uncomplicated passion. His simpleness is refreshing.

“I’m so glad I met you,” he says. “You’re way more interesting than anyone else I could’ve asked.”

The honesty in his voice makes me flinch.

A dark shadow advances towards the table and Basil’s unease is palpable. Damien clears his throat when he’s a metre away, touching my shoulder lightly as he takes the empty place next to mine. “Hey, it’s me.”

“Oh, hey.” Basil half rises from his chair, extending his hand.

“You can go.” Damien’s voice is implacable. “Chelsea’s been and gone. Her prank for the evening got redirected.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s great news. But, I—”

“Go.” Damien makes a shooing gesture with his hands.

Basil radiates unease, and his hand clutches the back of my chair.

“It’s fine,” I say.

“Okay. Guess I could sit with the swim team.”

“Great idea.” Damien waits until Basil’s gone, then guides me across the room, tapping my arm to stop while he pulls out a chair. “The view’s much better from here.”

“Always my top consideration.”

His fingers drum out a fast rhythm. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Did it hurt?” I glance around but can’t tell the circulating waiters from the students. “I’m not listening to another word until I have a drink.” Maybe five.

He grabs my hands between his. “What if I gave you a reason to trust me? What if I put my life in your hands?”

I bite my bottom lip, then shake my head. “What do you mean?”

“Your phone.”

It’s the first I realise he didn’t ask for it earlier. I withdraw it from my bag, holding it towards him, but he shakes his head. “You’ve still got one-touch recording set up?”

“Always.”

With it activated, he bends forward, speaking directly into the mic. “My name’s Damien Kade, and I murdered my father.”

For one long appalled moment, I’m stunned. Motionless. Silent.

Then the volume of the room skyrockets, student noise pressing in from all sides.

“Shh.”

I whip the phone away from him, glancing around the room, but without any glasses, I don’t have any idea if people around are eavesdropping. If they can hear a single word he says.

“It’s fine.” His hands guide mine back until they’re steady in front of him. “No one else can hear us above the music.”

He bends closer to the mic again.

“Alexander Kade’s body is still in the basement at home, waiting to be discovered.”

My pulse skips ahead of the dance beat as Damien elaborates on his confession. Detailing the physical struggle, the unplanned killing. The meticulously staged scene afterwards.

Everything from the robe his father wore to the specific knots Damien tied in the cord around his neck.

When he’s done, he stops the recording, leaving the phone in my hands.

“Is this a joke?”

There’s the low whisper of his exhalation.

“You know it isn’t.” His fingers close around my hand, warming it from its sudden chill. “Now you have everything you need to destroy me. There’s no timeline where my confession won’t prompt a murder investigation. No judge bent enough they won’t send me to prison.”

I tuck the phone into my bag, a more dangerous weapon than the replacement can of pepper spray already stored in there. “Why would you do this?”

“Because I’m not playing games with you. Not any longer.” His hand briefly cups my cheek, then he sits back. “Keep it. Delete it. Whatever is right for you, and you don’t have to decide now. This will still work in ten years or fifty.”

“Fifty?” I snort out a laugh. “Steady on.”

“Yes, fifty. At least.” He takes both my hands in his. “I love you, Ophelia Boehm.”

Pretty words. My heart stutters in my chest. “You can’t love me. You don’t feel emotions, remember?”

“Slight correction. I thought I couldn’t, but it turns out I was just surrounded by immensely unlovable and unfeeling people. Won’t be making that mistake again.”

He leaves a long pause, and I don’t know how to react, what he’s expecting. Where his claim is meant to take us. It’s preposterous.

Finally, Damien prompts, “What do you say?”

“About you being a”—I mouth the word murderer—“It’s a lot to process.”

“Not that.” His hands squeeze a little tighter. “The other bit.”

As if patricide couldn’t possibly be my chief concern. To be fair, it’s not that confession that’s spun me for a loop.

“I just need a minute. None of this seems real.” I stand, gently pulling my hands away from his. “And I still need the bathroom even more since you distracted me. The last thing I need is a UTI.”

“Would you like a guide?”

A laugh bursts out of me, far too high-pitched. “And stage a repeat? No, thanks.”

This time, I join the queue for the ladies rather than revisit the disabled bathroom.

My head is spinning from the last ten minutes. Damien’s murder confession horrifies me, but not for the reason it should. I’m horrified he trusts me enough to hand me evidence that could destroy him.

Shuffling closer to the bathroom, one place at a time, my head takes me back to the dusty classroom. Not the sex, but what came afterward. Damien’s strange reaction when I played my recording.

My threat hadn’t mattered. What affected him was that I hadn’t used the recording and destroyed him. Now he’s trusting me with more. With his life or at least a hefty chunk of it.

And a great weight lifts from me.

It’s not just a confession, it’s a promise he’ll try his best for us. If he hurts me tomorrow or in twenty years, I can hurt him right back.

Damien’s given me a lifelong guarantee.

The bathroom door swings open. Two girls exit and it’s my turn. The girl ahead vanishes into a stall, and I press doors until one pushes inwards. Locked inside, I sink onto the seat and withdraw my phone.

The recording’s still there. It’s already synched with the cloud.

It’s real.

A girl blows her hands dry, and the outer door creaks open. There’s a blast of distorted music, then someone roughly shouldering her way inside. Muffled voices, angry and female. The room fills with a weird fishy smell.

I store the phone in my bag, standing with my ear pressed against the stall door.

“Get out. All of you. Now.” It’s Chelsea. The sound is slurred, thick with tears or something else.

Footsteps scuffle. A younger girl whimpers, “But Chelsea, I really have to go—”

“I said get out!” There’s a sharp crack, like a palm slapping a porcelain sink.

More hurried footsteps, the stall doors opening and closing rapidly.

Silence falls again, but it’s different. Charged. Dangerous. I hold my breath, my body rigid against the stall door. I can hear her breathing. Ragged, uneven. The tap of shoes on tile as she paces closer.

My fingers close around the small canister in my purse, withdrawing it. My palm is sweaty. The smooth metal threatens to slide out of my grip, even after I wipe both hands on my dress.

The pacing stops right outside my stall. Her ragged breath just inches away.

“I know you’re in there, Ophelia.” Her voice is a low venomous drip. “Come out and face me. Or are you too much of a coward?”

I don’t move. Don’t breathe.

“Fine.” The knob jiggles. “I’ll wait. You’ll come out, eventually.” She shifts position, leaning against the stall separator. “We can talk about how you ruined my life.”

I weigh my options. Stay locked in, a trapped animal. Or face her.

The memory of Alyssa’s weight, the mud across my face, flashes through me. Then it morphs, becomes Craig. My head foggy, movements uncoordinated. The helplessness.

I won’t be helpless again.

Taking a deep breath, I unlock the door and shove it wide open.

Chelsea stumbles back a step, caught off guard. Her aura is pure, undiluted hate. Her hand rises, clutching something that reflects the light. A blade’s dull flash.

“There she is,” she sneers, edging forward a step. “The freak who stole my boyfriend. Twice.”

I step away from the stall, keeping distance between us. The restroom is overly bright, the white tiles and mirrors amplifying the tension, glares and reflections from all directions until my eyes water.

“Damien was never your boyfriend.” My voice is surprisingly steady. “You were a favour to his father.”

“Like you’re worth anything to him except for novelty value. What do you think’s going to happen when he gets bored? You’re nothing special. He’ll toss you aside like rubbish when he’s done.”

I shuffle sideways, moving towards the bank of sinks, and Chelsea mirrors me, keeping pace. The pepper spray is a steady weight in my palm, hidden behind my leg. I slide my thumb over the safety cap, and it clicks off softly.

“You just can’t keep your hands off what’s mine, can you?” Her voice rises hysterically. “You ruined things with Craig.”

My caution curdles into something hotter, angrier. “Craig,” I repeat, the name tasting like broken glass. “You mean the arsehole who assaulted me after spiking my drink?”

She stumbles to the side. A crack in the fury. “That’s not what happened. You must’ve led him on.” Her voice gets stronger. “You wanted it.”

I take another step back, my shoes clicking on the tile. The sink counter presses into my hip and it’s only a few feet back to the door.

“You can rewrite history however you like, but you saw me that night. You saw how out of it I was. Why are you defending him when at best, he cheated on you? At worst, he’s a rapist.”

“Because you ruined everything!” she shrieks, the sound bouncing off the tiles. “We were happy. We had an understanding. And then he had to leave school because of your lies.”

“My lies?” My laugh is incredulous. “I never said a word to anyone until a couple of weeks ago. He left because he was guilty.” My voice is a cold, flat tone I didn’t know I possessed. “Or maybe he was just desperate to get away from you.”

“You bitch.” Her voice shakes as she advances, raising her hand level with my face. “I’ll slice your face into ribbons, and we’ll see how special Damien thinks you are then.”

There’s a stink of wine on her breath. Her hand’s shaking. She’s not a natural at this, used to letting other people do her dirty work, but desperation makes people dangerous.

“Go ahead.” I straighten, my finger resting on the nozzle. “But you’ll have to live with the consequences of carving up his favourite toy.”

A raw, incoherent scream tears from Chelsea’s throat. She lunges forward, her arm arcing towards my cheek.

Time slows. My body moves on instinct.

Ducking to the side, left arm blocking her wrist while my right hand swings up, the pepper spray aimed directly at her eyes.

And the can slips in my sweaty grasp.

The spray goes wild, halfway between us. I gulp in a breath and fire tinges my lungs. Trembling, backing up a step, I hold my wrist steady with my other hand and press the nozzle again.

There’s a sharp hiss. A fine, burning mist hits her square in the face.

Chelsea shrieks, a sound of pure, animal agony. “Fuck.” The knife clatters to the floor, skittering under the sinks. Her hands fly to her face, clawing at the skin. “My eyes.”

She stumbles backward, crashing into a stall door and sliding to the floor, writhing and screaming.

The capsaicin fills the air until my eyes are watering, tears pouring from beneath my closed lids.

A detached part of me revels in her screams, her suffering. A flicker of satisfaction, quickly drowned by a wave of nausea. There’s so much more at risk now. What have I done?

I rush for the door just as it bursts open. Ms Wilding, one of the supervising teachers, rushes inside.

“What in the world?” Her eyes dart from me, standing frozen, to Chelsea, sobbing on the floor.

“She had a knife.” I stumble past her into the corridor. Other people rush into the bathroom, and there’s the sound of running water in the sink, comforting murmurs as they assist Chelsea. “A knife,” I say again. “It’s somewhere on the floor.”

Ms Wilding is already on her phone, giving the address. “Main floor women’s restroom. We need police and ambulance here immediately.”

Damien’s scent reaches me a split second before his arm curls protectively around my shoulder. His expression is unreadable, but his body is taut, ready to spring.

He can’t get involved. Not with the police coming.

“She’s calling the cops.” My whisper is low and urgent. “You need to leave.”

Damien squeezes me tighter, his neck turning towards Chelsea, still on the floor, then back to me. He gives a single nod of understanding. “I’ll wait outside, follow you in the car if they arrest you.”

He presses a kiss on my lips, then releases me, his thumb brushing my wrist a second before he melts back into the hallway.

The bathroom door is now chocked open. Ms Wilding kneels by Chelsea, helping flush her eyes while avoiding the contaminated air. “It’s going to be okay. Help is coming.”

Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder.

I lean against the wall, my shoulders shaking against the hard surface. The quick rush of adrenaline is fading, leaving me jittering and empty, Damien’s light touch lingering on my wrist.