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.
