Daybreak (Sorrowsong University, #2) — Chapter no 5

Chapter 5

OPHELIA

I paid sixty pounds for a private remote GP appointment—it was cheaper than making the forty-minute journey to the nearest doctor’s surgery— about my lack of sleep, only for her to tell me I’m sleep-deprived and need to sleep a bit more.

So, with that invaluable wisdom tucked neatly under my arm, I skipped my final lecture of the day to go back to my room and go to bed early And naturally, I’ve been lying awake for six hours.

My windows aren’t good enough to stop the breeze slipping through the frame, the crunch of snow and gravel under feet outside too loud for me to fall asleep. My mind is whirring so fast that it might take off, like the staff helicopter that hasn’t flown once since Alex was appointed CEO of Green Aviation. Instead, I pull my phone from where it lies beside the knife beneath my pillow and open a text thread with the newest contact in my address book.

Mack Thanks for your time.

Mack I’m going to try to track down the texts to see if they match anything I have on Cain Green.

Mack In the meantime, Brendan is looking into the article leak. If it was you, now would be a great time to tell us. You’d save him a whole lot of time.

I send a reply, typing my new favorite phrase.

Ophelia It wasn’t me.

He asked me that when he was here, too, the two of us talking over steaming coffee in the darkest corner of the Nightshade library, where the lamps and the candles don’t quite reach. And like usual, I could see disbelief reflecting back at me when I looked into his eyes and told him it wasn’t me.

But who was it? That’s the question that truly stumps me.

I feel like I did last term: second-guessing every friend, stranger, and act of kindness that I stumble across. This is probably exactly what they want, for my new connections to be eaten away by suspicion, for me to become

isolated. Easy to reach.

I’m missing something. Again.

As I stare at Mack’s texts, another one pings through. It’s a phone number.

Mack Alex’s new phone number, in case you need it. He said I could pass it on.

What?

I sit upright in bed, the duvet sliding down to my midriff.

What?

I’ve spent the first part of this year desperately trying to get over him, trying to get my life back, and now this?

Is he asking me to text him?

Complete radio silence for a month and a half, and then … here’s my phone number, Ophelia, like some customer service representative. Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any issues.

“Hi, yes, my boyfriend left without a word. I’d like a refund,” I mutter, as I shut off my phone without saving the number.

My lungs ache, and whatever protection I thought I’d built against the harsh slap of Alex’s silence crumbles away. Anger rejuvenates my tired mind, the blood rushing through my veins almost an audible thrum beneath

the duvet.

Why has he given me his number?

I throw my phone to the end of the bed before I do something stupid like text him.

Silence descends around the valley, a break in the wind offering a brief reprieve from the whistling and the whispering that snake through the trees.

Somehow, it’s worse than the noise.

Loneliness is like a physical presence in my life. A person more than it is a feeling. Faceless, nameless, back turned to me. Teasing and taunting, laughing at me whenever I have to eat dinner alone.

Like I always have been, I think I was a bit naive about how my life would change once I had friends. Friends were a panacea, a big, shiny, glowing orb that if I could only reach, would turn all the shit in my life into gold. The yawning chasm left by my parents’ deaths would shrink, and silence wouldn’t feel like an ache.

Now I have some, it hasn’t quite worked out that way. The introduction of friends to my life has filled a different void, numbed a different pain. My friends make the mornings pass quicker, fill the afternoons with noise and laughter, but when the night has stripped the day of its color and the day has stripped the resolve from my bones, my past still eats away at me.

I trace my finger round the lucky key ring my dad gave me on my twelfth birthday. It’s actually a shopping cart token, but I don’t think he knew that. He just liked the fact that it was orange.

He loved my mother’s hair, always said it was the reason he loved her at first sight. I think that’s the reason I don’t hate mine. I struggle to pick holes in my reflection when it’s the combination of the two people I loved more than anything else.

I startle, the key ring falling from my hand when footsteps sound outside my door. I wait for them to fade, wait for the guy down the hall to close his bedroom door, but everything is silent.

My breath is suspended, whole body frozen as I watch two black shapes come to a stop in the dull strip of light beneath my bedroom door.

No knock comes.

Did I lock the door? God, I hope I locked the door.

My fingers tighten around my knife, my own voice making me jump.

“Hello?”

I cringe at the rustling of sheets as I slowly rise from the bed, bare feet silent against tile. I don’t dare breathe, mouth clamped shut as I wrap my

hand around the door handle.

With my heart beating a rapid, sickening rhythm in my throat, I count to three and yank open the door, holding my knife out, just in case.

It meets … nothing, no one.

The hallway is deserted, the shadows between the doorways eerily still.

The only sign I’m not going completely mad is the remainder of two rapidly fading wet footprints at my feet.

A KNOCK AT my bedroom door has me jumping out of my skin.

This is it. I’m about to get murdered. Probably.

I’ve hardly slept for two days. I spend my nights covering and uncovering the thin gap beneath the door, unable to decide between yes, I’d really love to know that someone is standing outside my door, and no, thanks, I’d rather just die a quick, ignorant death.

“Ophelia,” sings Colette on the other side of the gnarled wood. “We

have snacks and plans.”

“I’m busy.”

Divya’s voice comes next. “Sitting on the bed in a towel while plucking hairs from your stomach doesn’t constitute busy.”

God, I’m getting predictable.

“Rude!” I shout, throwing the tweezers to the back of my drawer. I drag

on a hoodie and pull the door open.

Project Pheelz.

The letters are written in Colette’s loopy handwriting on a chalkboard that Divya is holding.

Colette finishes putting a little love heart above the J while Magda draws sparkles all around it in yellow chalk, the three of them making quite the spectacle in the dark, dusty hallway.

Magda pops her chewing gum as the three of them file in. “This is a home invasion,” I declare, watching Colette slip out of her fluffy boots and

dive onto my bed.

“Would a home invader bring cookies?”

“Probably, if they were trying to convince me it wasn’t a home invasion.”

“It’s too snowy to do anything outside, rugby and hockey games are canceled, the roads are pretty much undrivable, the power is shaky, and

we’re bored out of our minds.”

Colette hangs the board from a rusting nail between two crumbling stones. “Hence, Project Pheelz.”

Magda shudders, shuffling away from the thick cobwebs over the broken sconce on my wall. “Can’t we do this somewhere else? I fucking hate this place.”

I don’t blame her. The Nightshade mansion is terrifying, especially this time of year. The lights haven’t worked all day.

“Project Pheelz,” declares Divya, giving us a look like a teacher who has just caught two students talking. She whips a laser pointer out of her pocket. I stifle a laugh, but my heart is warm.

They love me.

“We have three main aims,” explains Colette, drawing heart-shaped bullet points as Magda throws a pillow at Divya for shining a laser in her eye. “Mini makeover in time for the Winter Ball.”

“I’m not going.”

“We’re all going. Wardrobe refresh—on a budget. Murder Cain Green.”

My laughter bubbles out of me as Magda draws a wiggly line and a sparkle beneath the final bullet point.

Magda snatches the pink chalk from Colette, messily scrawling a fourth sentence: Find a rebound.

“Absolutely not.” For a multitude of reasons: My heart hurts too much.

No one would compare to Alex. I’ve sworn off men forever.

A nasty thought pops into my brain, unwelcome. Has he found a rebound? The thought of Alex with someone the way he was with me … the whispered French, the eye contact, the swipe of his tongue along his lower lip, the way my name on his lips as he comes sounds like a desperate plea.

I feel nauseous.

The others must catch the shift in my expression, because Colette’s gentle hands push me down to a sitting position on my bed. “All right, let’s forget the rebound idea. You don’t have to do that one.”

“Okay,” I whisper, voice distant. I take a steady breath, thinking rationally. I know in my heart that Alex hasn’t found a rebound, that it’d be as abhorrent to him as it is to me.

“Let’s skip to step three. Let’s just skip straight to murder. Way more fun than makeovers, anyway.”

Colette sticks her bottom lip out. I think she’s been desperately waiting for me to ask her if I need a spring or autumn palette for months. But I need to master a routine of eating, showering, and brushing my teeth before figuring out if wearing yellow makes me look even more like a corpse than I already do.

“Okay,” I say, sounding more assertive than I really am. “I don’t think we are the people to catch Cain Green. The FBI and the best private detectives are already on it.”

The three faces opposite me are wrought in disappointment. I see them lower their metaphorical pitchforks. Magda looks like I’ve canceled Christmas.

“We tried to change Divya’s tire last week and three of us were in tears by the end,” I argue. That gets me a few reluctant nods of agreement. “But we can figure out who leaked the article.”

“And figure out if it’s Cain texting you.”

Divya pulls out a fucking clipboard. Colette hands her a highlighter in every pastel shade you could imagine. My spirits lift.

“Okay, let’s start at the beginning again. Who would have a motive to hack your laptop and spread all that information?”

I trace my fingers over my chapped bottom lip. This is what I don’t understand. Cain, Shawn, Carmichael … they all had a reason to hate me, to want me to be unhappy, but they also had no reason to want the downfall of Green, especially not Cain. “I have no idea.”

“And once again we’re off to a flying start.”

Now we’re all laughing, driven hysterical by the shambles that is my life. “Shall we just leave this to the detectives and get drunk?” I ask.

“No!” They all yell, revenge hungry and fueled up on too much caffeine.

I hold my hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Umm …”

“Does Alex have any angry exes?”

“Not that I know of. And how would they have known about the article I

wrote, anyway?”

Divya hums. “Good point.”

I drag my hands down my face. “I am definitely missing something. It could’ve been Carmichael?”

Colette sprawls back on my bed. No one is brave enough to lie on the other one, where Sofia’s side of the room remains untouched. I’m scared

that if I do so much as move the bed closer to the wall, the Ivanovs will know, somehow. “But why? This whole ordeal hasn’t done wonders for his reputation, either.”

“Ophelia, don’t give up on this,” says Magda, snatching my phone out of my hand after I bring up a Sudoku app. “You deserve to have your name cleared.”

“I don’t care about my name,” I grumble, because it’s true. People can think what they want about me. I know the truth; my friends know the truth.

“If your name gets cleared, you and Alex can …” Divya trails off, an awkward silence hanging in the stale air.

“Can what? Reconvene? Pick up like nothing happened? Like his father didn’t kill my parents, like he didn’t walk out on me, like I didn’t hide that article for months? Work through the fact that we’re three thousand miles apart, and that I’d never move to the US?” My laugh is bitter on my tongue, words I’ve kept buried for weeks finally spilling over. “He left me. He blocked my number.”

“He went through a lot,” says Colette, quietly. “He’s shut everyone out, even Vincenzo.”

It’s petulant, but a flash of hurt spikes my chest. The words Team Alex might as well be flashing above her head. “Whose side are you on here?”

“I’m on Team Alex and Ophelia. The two of you. Together. He made you happy.”

The sting of tears in the corners of my eyes makes me turn away.

Rummaging in my bag for anything to distract me, I pull out a crumpled paper bag, haphazardly covered in brown tape. “You guys keep brainstorming. I need to drop this off at the post office. Back in ten.”

Colette’s delicate fingers close around my biceps as I leave. She must notice the glassy sheen over my eyes, because one appears over her eyes,

too. “Ophelia—”

“It’s fine. I just need some air.”

“I’m on your side. I’m always on your side.”

I nod, eyes on my boots. “I know. I just need to post this.”

Her grip on my arm vanishes. “Okay, honey.”

It’s raining when I step outside. Heavy gray rain that melts the snow into sludge. I’m too petty to go back and grab my waterproof jacket. Laura’s father’s confession tape, the final nail in Cain Green’s coffin, feels hot and

heavy tucked under my arm. Though none of this played out the way I wanted, I hope it’s brought Laura some peace.

I’ve been meaning to post it back to her for weeks—I know how important it is to her. I’ve been meaning to text her, too.

I’ve been meaning to do a lot of things and failing.

Trying to move on from Alex is taking up all of my emotional strength.

As I trudge through wet snow and freezing mud, I vow to myself not to let this continue. I’ve lost my last four years to grief. I won’t find something else to grieve over now.

I need to find a hobby that isn’t being miserable.

My breath is a white cloud filtering through my chattering teeth as I hand the parcel to the woman at the small post office in the castle’s main structure. The brown paper is a little bit soggy, but it’ll do.

The rain has slowed to an icy drizzle when I leave the castle and slide my hands back into my mittens. March may be on the horizon, but winter still rules in the valley. I thought February here would be picturesque: snow-capped turrets and deer running through the frozen forest. Instead, it’s beige-gray and depressing. Leaky ceilings and single-glazed windows.

Thick fog that veils the beautiful views of the Scottish Highlands.

If soup didn’t exist, I’d have given up by now.

A text from Colette pings through on my cracked phone screen.

Colette Power is back on in the Cortinar halls! Meet us there.

Colette I’ll microwave popcorn!!

Popcorn sounds good right now. I tuck my phone back into my pocket and duck under the branches that sag over the overgrown trail back to the mansion. A twig crunches somewhere ahead of me, and I freeze in place.

The pea-sized rational part of my brain reminds me that this is a university.

That there are students all over the campus. That not everyone here is a stalker.

A figure steps onto the main path, and I stagger backward. My rib cage feels too small, a constrictive cage preventing my lungs from inflating.

It’s not a stalker.

It’s not an angry student.

It’s worse.

It’s Alex.

My brain asks my feet to turn and run, but they kindly decline. I stand there, mouth opening and closing like if I keep going, something good might come out of it. The hundred things I want to say to him have all rushed up at once, forming a gelatinous ball that clogs my throat.

His black boots are covered in snow, but he’s perfectly dressed. Shirt ironed, slacks pressed, damp hair falling in that messy middle part. The cherry of the cigarette in his mouth glows, the look in his eye agonized. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, like a hunter desperate not to scare off his prey.

I don’t know why, but I thought he’d look different. More menacing, taller, bigger, older. The CEO I read about in the news feels like a different beast than the boy who spent his boxing day stringing up fairy lights in a rental car so I could experience my first Christmas in years.

But he just looks like … Alex.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I can’t bear to hear it. There’s nothing he could say that would ease the sting of the past couple of months. I shake my head at him, desperate for silence for once in my life. I’m not ready for how much hearing his voice will hurt.

Whatever it is he wants to say, I’m not ready for it. I just hope it isn’t something idiotic like hi.