Chapter 3. Ophelia #3
Belladonna is facing me now, stalking over until she’s almost nose to nose with me.
She’s taller, wider, stronger. The delicate vine tattoos that peek out from the neckline of her hoodie stretch as her jaw ticks.
“He left because you put six girls into a relentless wheel of media attention. Didn’t you think his mom was sick enough already? ”
“It. Wasn’t. Me.” I’ve said it so many times, I’m convinced the words are etched onto my tongue, bleached onto my soul.
Her nostrils flare, pale blue gaze icy. I’m sure she can smell my fear. I don’t doubt that Belladonna would kill—maybe even has killed—for those she loves. “Do us all a favor and stay out of his life, Winters. He doesn’t need any more mess.”
The final word comes out laden with so much malice, so much intention, that despite my desperate efforts to thicken my skin over the past few weeks, it slips inside like a hot knife through butter.
Mess. That’s what she thinks I am to Alex.
She stalks away before I can think of a clever reply, shouting over her shoulder as she leaves. “You’re kicking too wide on your breaststroke. That’s why you suck.”
The door slamming rattles my bones, teeth chattering as wind slips through the cracked windows. I sink down to the bench, letting my head hang in despair.
A heavy silence settles in the locker room.
My fingers fumble with the laces on my boots, hurrying to zip up my bag.
Like every time I’m alone here, my heart rate spikes where it thuds in my throat.
Bancroft may be dead, but it doesn’t stop me feeling watched everywhere I go, hearing twigs snap behind me in the forest, sensing someone standing on the other side of every door.
I glance over my shoulder whenever I walk along the path to the Nightshade mansion. I double lock my room each night, slide the chair beneath the handle.
Someone took that photo of us in the forest. I’m 99 percent sure it must’ve been Shawn. Who else would be following me? No one on campus other than him has shown an interest in me at all.
And that 99 percent is enough for me, until the early hours of the morning, where sleep deprivation has made me paranoid, and that extra one percent shouts louder than the rest. I’ve buried one stalker. I just hope my silence is enough to stall the anger of whoever sent that photo.
I don’t feel safe here, and I don’t feel safe back at my parents’ house.
It feels so ridiculous that despite the magnitude of the last few months—falling in love, learning to trust, almost being killed, taking down Cain Green—I don’t feel any safer than I did when I first arrived at Sorrowsong last autumn.
My phone buzzes in my bag as I head out of the changing rooms and leave the glass pool house. A dangerous bulb of hope illuminates at the back of my mind.
Could it be him? Do I even want it to be him? I hold my breath as I rifle around in my bag, thinking of what it is I’d say. I’m sorry? Why did you leave? I’m angry with you. How is your mom? I passed the exams I thought I’d fail, beat the freestyle personal best I never thought I would.
I think about you all the time.
A hundred and one things flit through my brain as my hand finally finds the device amongst the empty cereal bar wrappers and lip balms.
It isn’t him. It’s an unknown number.
A shadow moves in the corner of my vision, making me jump.
But nothing is there, just a bush rustling in the wind.
I pick up the call but don’t speak, waiting anxiously as I scan every single gap in the trees.
A gruff American accent breaks the silence. “Ms. Ophelia Winters?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Mack; I lead a firm working for Mr. Corbeau-Green to investigate his father’s disappearance.”
“Oh.” Even his name hurts. “I see.”
“I wondered if you had time to answer a couple of questions?”
I glance over my shoulder at the sound of footsteps in the trees but see nothing. “Uhh … okay. How do I know you’re … real?”
“I can fly to Scotland tomorrow, if you’d prefer. Or have you flown to New York.”
“No!” I drag in a ragged inhale, trying to calm my tone. Even the idea of getting on a plane has my hands clammy. “No, thank you. I’m afraid of flying, and you don’t need to come here.”
“I can put you on the phone to Mr. Corbeau, to ease your worries?”
A long silence stretches out over the line. I imagine a brief phone call, sandwiched between meetings, curt and businesslike. I’m not ready for that. “No, no. Bear with me.”
If I texted Belladonna now, she’d probably use her influence to make my phone explode in my hand, or something. I don’t know where I stand with Vincenzo these days, but I know he wouldn’t lie to me.
Ophelia Winters
Do you know a guy called Mack?
Vincenzo Morello
Alex’s investigator?
Ophelia Winters
So he’s legit, then.
Vincenzo Morello
One of the best.
“Okay, fine,” I breathe, suitably appeased. “What do you want to know?”
His voice is crackly from lack of signal. “Have you seen, heard, or received anything suspicious since Cain Green went missing?”
I open my mouth to tell him about the text I received at the airport but shut it just as quickly when I remember what was in that text message.
A photo of Alex and me, both dirty and bloodied, standing over a dying man in the forest. If this guy is working with the police, that’s probably not the best idea.
I’d die burying that photo if it meant those girls didn’t lose another parental figure in their lives.
But hiding the truth from Alex is something I’m trying to leave behind.
“I … I think I need to speak to Alex first.”
“You’re free to say as you wish without judgement.”
Yeah, but is that I stole a cookie from a bakery when I was nine sort of no judgement, or I stabbed my lecturer and spat on his dead body sort of no judgement. “I got a text from someone.”
I snap my mouth shut before I say any more.
“And this was before or after Alex buried your stalker?”