Page 55 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
A small laugh escapes her, though it sounds tired. “It’s the only place that still feels like mine.”
She’s the best ice skater I’ve ever seen, elegant, utterly in her element on the ice. I have no doubt she’ll go professional one day.
When she starts to move past me, I don’t push her to stay. We exchange a brief nod, and I continue on my way back to the dorms.
Once inside, I change out of my riding clothes into a pair of fitted jeans, a soft Chanel knit jumper, white fluffy socks and my ankle boots.
In the kitchen, I check my blood sugar, then inject my insulin.
The coffee machine hums to life as I prepare a coconut cappuccino, the scent warm and comforting. While it brews, I toast some bread and top it with rocket, sliced tomatoes, and vegan cheese.
A soft stillness settles over me, but there’s something almost deceptive about it, the kind of calm that exists only to disguise the storm waiting just beyond it.
Chapter 18
Ophelia
After four classes back to back, without so much as a moment to breathe, I’m spent.
The relief of being finished for the day is dulled by the tremor in my hands. My body feels hollow and unsteady, probably just low blood sugar again.
I’m lightheaded, my palms damp, fingers trembling so badly I can hardly grip my pen.
When the professor dismisses us, I reach for my bag on the floor, drag it up onto the desk, and start gathering my books.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
In my clumsiness the strap slips, the bag tumbles off the desk and spills across the floor with a thud, papers scattering in all directions.
I crouch to gather everything, my vision blurring as I scoop pens, notebooks, and stray sheets of paper back into a semblance of order.
That’s when I spot a small slip I don’t recognise, lying a little apart from the rest.
I still, a faint crease forming between my brows.
It’s only a folded note, plain and perfectly ordinary, yet there’s something about its placement that feels intentional. As though someone meant for me to find it.
I pick it up with unsteady fingers and unfold it.
One word stares back at me, scribbled in black, the letters uneven and slanted.
MURDERER.
For a moment, my mind refuses to process it. The word seems to blur and ripple on the page, the ink bleeding into my vision until it almost moves.
My hands tremble so violently that the paper quivers between my fingers.
My eyes sting, my breath quickens. A chill sweeps through me, settling deep in my bones.
The first signs of panic begin to take hold, and with my blood sugar already low, I know I’m in trouble.
I shove everything into my bag without really seeing what I’m doing, rise to my feet, and step out of the classroom.
The corridor tilts and shifts around me.
I blink, but for a second, all I see are trees, darkness, branches, the ghost of the woods.
I blink again, and a rush of cold air meets my face. When the blur clears, I realise I’m outside, behind the main building.
