Page 22

Story: Vow of Vengeance

CHAPTER 22

Haze

The phone call is from Gian. I leave her with a kiss on her brow, going to my room, ready to demand answers from him. Gian’s supposed to be my right-hand man. Years we’ve been together, and she shows up. She is here for one day with him, and he turns his back on me to help her.

Can I blame him? Her powers are strong.

Gian and I speak, and he begs forgiveness for giving her the phone, then fills me in on his disappearance. After we hang up, I hop in the shower, turning the heat to full blast. I lather my skin and hair with soap, scrubbing as I process.

So, those lines from the poem were hers.

But who stole them?

When she named everyone who lived in her house and could have been responsible, she left one person off the list.

Herself.

Leah says she’s not the guilty party. Supposedly, Grandpa can’t log in. Grandma? Doubtful she could create a dating profile, stalk me, catfish me, then lure me to the park to rob me.

Sounds like the work of a teenager.

Ophelia works at a fast-food chain in town, where the older regulars love the cheap American coffee. I’m sure she has retired regulars—ones whose trust she could earn and pay off by bumping into me at the park and taking my wallet.

Her glowing vocabulary, the carpentry class, and the essay show how hard she works at school. However, she lost the scholarship one semester before graduation and needed that money.

Ophelia can access her mom’s photos and information, so it would be easiest for her to create a fake account. But is she capable?

I rinse, dry, and dress, collapsing into bed. I lay there, arms folded under my head, staring at the ceiling. The door opens, a shred of light from the hall illuminating the carpet.

Showered and dressed in sweats, she climbs into my bed and curls into my arms. The feeling is so familiar that I almost think she must have slept here that first night, which I thought was a dream.

Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her closer, burying my face in her damp, floral-scented hair.

“Sorry about the phone,” she whispers. “I had to know my family was safe.”

I think of how I spent my last half hour, mistrusting her, wondering if she could have been the one writing me messages. She’s a terrible liar. My gut tells me to trust her. I let go of everything between us that isn’t this gentle moment. I kiss the back of her head. She gives a satisfied sigh, her body relaxing against mine.

We sleep until eight, and we have tea and toast for breakfast. I tell her we’re cutting class today to spend the day together, which makes her smile. Then, I ask her what she wants to do with her day.

She looks up at me. “I’m about to ask you for the biggest favor of my life.”

I already know what she’ll ask for. Gian and I planned the entire trip on the phone last night. Still, it’s fun to make her ask since she hid the phone from me.

“After being so naughty? You need a favor?” I eye her.

Her pretty face flushes. “I need to go to Scotland. Today. Gian is helping me discover what happened to my father and more about my past.” She looks off, shaking her head to herself. “I don’t know why I need to know, but I do.”

Hearing how important this is to her, I feel bad for making her ask. I take her in my arms. “I know, baby. Gian and I have already planned everything out for you.”

“You have?” She stares up at me. I nod. She rises on tiptoe, planting a sweet kiss on my cheek. “Thank you!”

We each pack a bag and head to Inverness, the heart of the Scottish Highlands, set on the banks of the River Ness. Taking the private family jet, we arrive at a small pub, the address Gian gave us, in time for an early dinner. She warns me not to order the haggis.

The bar is cozy, with low ceilings, dark wood, and forest green wallpaper. Being later in the afternoon, Scottish accents fly around us as people banter and converse. It’s Thursday, so the early-out-of-work crowd who want to extend the weekend are trickling in for drinks.

A couple of gray-haired men are drinking ale in the corner, engaged in a lively game of darts.

She says, “While we’re waiting for Gian, let’s investigate the whole ‘why my poem is on your phone screen’ question.”

“We know how it got there,” I offer.

“But we don’t know which villain dared to read and SHARE my private writing.” She gives me a serious look, her tone filled with distaste. “And what’s worse? They used that journal to rip your heart out of your chest and steal your money.”

The loyalty in her tone—her being angry for me—fills me with a good feeling of trust.

“Let’s focus,” she says. “What do we need to figure out?”

I say, “I want to know who sent me those messages and how many were your words.”

“Let’s find out.”

“How?”

She gets a mischievous gleam in her eyes as she unzips her bag. I watch as she pulls out the little contraband phone. She holds it up. “I hope it’s okay that I snuck this out of the closet when I packed my bag. I thought it might come in handy for this mission.”

“Okay,” I say.

“It’s an hour ahead in Italy, right?” she asks.

“Yeah…” Where is she going with this?

“So, it’s well into wine o’clock! My mom is a lightweight. Using this phone, I can try to get some answers.” She flips it open. “Can you text on this thing?”

Moments like these remind me how young she is. I show her how to text on the small screen.

Her nose crinkles. “This is going to take forever. Did you all really use these?”

“Back in the day. Should you call her instead?”

“I think text is better.” She shoots me a cop look. “Then we have evidence if we need to confront her later.”

“Great idea.” I fully trust Ophelia. How can I not? She only snuck the phone to make sure her family was safe. I can’t fault her for that. She never truly betrayed my trust in her.

She types her messages in, one painstaking line at a time. It’s funny watching someone younger than me struggle so badly with old tech. I ease my elbow onto the dark wood pub table, leaning my head against my palm, grinning as I watch.

Mom its me

This wasn’t a hotel number

Is a cell they gave me

I just didn’t want u blowing me up

She exhales, staring at her work. “Okay, that’s all true so far.”

“You don’t like to lie, do you?” I ask.

Her face crumples. “No. I hate deceit.”

Even more trust for her grows. “Good,” I say. “That’s good.”

Holding the phone, she raises her sneakered feet onto the balls of her feet, and her knee bobs up and down from nerves as she waits for a response. “I hope she texts back. I mean, she always texts back right away.”

I put a reassuring hand on her knee to calm her. “We have time.”

The phone dings.

“Wow. It’s her!” She scoots her chair away from the table. “Come here, bring your chair beside me so we can read these together.”

I follow her orders, moving my chair beside her. Our arms press together as we stare at the phone as her mom’s answer comes through.

Hi! How are you?

How many boys have you kissed?

“What is she asking that for?” I demand.

Ophelia shakes her head, muttering, “Just ignore her.” Now, having some practice, her thumbs fly over the tiny keypad, typing her message.

How’s everyone at home

Her mom answers.

All good! I miss you!

Ophelia pauses a moment, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Then, she types.

Me too!

Any word on who sent those messages

Our arms press together tighter, waiting for a response.

I still don’t know who catfished him

But I finally hacked into the account

I read the messages

I think its someone from your school

Maybe Carter?

I watch her face as her brow knits in confusion. “Why Carter?” Her mom sends more messages before Ophelia can type anything else out.

The writings... they sounded like YOU

I searched your room after I read them

Found your journal

Ophelia and I look up at one another simultaneously, our eyes locking. More texts come through.

All the main messages

The ones that meant something

They were direct quotes

From you

At once, Ophelia and I come to the same conclusion—the phone forgotten. Almost the whole time I was messaging Leah, I was reading Ophelia’s innermost thoughts.

“You were talking to me.” She stares at me.

I say back, “I was reading your journal entries. I was getting to know… you.”

“I mean… kind of.” She goes into nervous chatter, texting her mother a quick thanks and goodbye. “Like, it wasn’t me writing the messages, but… those were my words you were reading.”

“And I loved them all. It wasn’t your mom’s profile pic that made me click on it. It was her words.”

“My words.”

“Your words,” I echo back.

I want to propose. Almost. I should at least share how I feel about her. I reach out, grabbing the hand that doesn’t hold the phone. “Ophelia?—"

Gian’s voice booms over the table, drawing our attention. “Hello, fellow Scots! How are we on this glorious day?”

The moment gone, I drop her hand from mine. “Gian!”

I’m looking at a Scottish version of the man I know. I recognize his polished black boots, but I’ve never seen the fitted gray and black Tartan pants he wears or the matching tartan tie that hangs over his crisp white button-down.

Ophelia doesn’t take a beat to even look at the man before flinging herself into his arms. “Mr. Gian! You’re here.”

“You mean, you’re here! And early, too.” They hug tightly. I stand to shake his hand. He eyes the closeness of our seats. “Look at you two lovebirds canoodling in the Inverness Lion’s Gate Pub.”

Ignoring his jest, she pats her hands on his chest. “I missed you so much! I still can’t believe you’re here!” She pulls out a chair. “Come, come. Sit down. Sit down.”

“I’ll get you a drink.” I put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it as I pass him to go to the bar to retrieve his extra dirty martini with four olives. Neither acknowledges my departure as they sit, instantly chatting at a speed I couldn’t keep up with anyway.

A beautiful bartender who looks to be in her late thirties tosses her long blonde hair over her shoulder, greeting me with a cheeky, “Well ‘ello there. Aren’t you easy on the eyes, lad?” She leans on the bar, revealing ample cleavage. “What can I get you?”

I give her Gian’s order. She laughs. “I’d have pegged you for an IPA man, myself.”

“I am,” I say. “It’s for a friend.”

“Oh, a lady friend,” she grins.

I’ll tease Gian with that ammunition later. “Actually, it’s for?—”

Reading her expression, I stop myself. She’s not flirting for tips. She’s gently prying to see if I’m unattached. She looks up at me from under her lashes, awaiting my answer.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding at Ophelia sitting at our table. “I’m with her. Thanks.”

Disappointed, she shrugs. “All the good ones are taken and all that, eh?” She gives me a wink and goes to make the drink.

I glance over at Ophelia, who is unaware of the exchange. Funny, another woman hasn’t even crossed my mind since I’ve been with her. Is that what it’s supposed to feel like? When you do ask someone to marry you—the proper way?

And if I asked her…

What would her answer be?

I return with the drink, sitting down to hear Gian’s words to Ophelia.

He’s reaching for her hand, saying, “I found the woman you were looking for.”

“Who?” I ask, clueless as to what they’re talking about. I stare at Ophelia. “Who were you looking for?”

Gian answers me, “The woman with the pearl necklace.”

What little color lives in Ophelia’s cheeks drains away. She stares at Gian as if she’s just seen a ghost. She whispers, “You’re kidding?”

Who is the woman with the pearl necklace? And what does she mean to Ophelia?