Into Ruin: Chapter 19

Ishake off my frown. She’s nice enough, but we never got along. She’s texted me—and sought me out—more now than when we lived together. I skipped out before Royal or any of the other guys were awake this morning, my stomach in knots.

Something about Camden…

I don’t know.

Maybe it was what happened yesterday. The sequence of events that still makes me want to squirm in my seat.

What the hell was I thinking?

It’s bad enough that I’ve indulged in Camden’s twisted fantasies—and, maybe, even enjoyed some of them. But I’ve let him get away with a lot of other shit, too. Like filming me. Posting it to that account. And, most importantly, somehow hiding that all from my brother.

My mind goes back to the rose on his desk. It had looked like he pulled it from the garbage bin outside, but why? He hadn’t asked me about it. Didn’t use it to torment me. I didn’t find the petals scattered across my bed or anything creepy, which is what I would’ve come to expect.

Ugh.

It might just be a mystery that will never be solved.

I focus back on the professor’s lecture and scribble notes to punctuate their key points. Basically, desperately trying not to lose my academic cool in the first semester at FSU… I can’t flunk out. Not when Royal somehow maintains a three-point-two grade point average and plays hockey.

He would never let me live it down.

And if he finds out what I’m doing with Camden⁠—

Wait. When did it become with Camden? And not what Camden is doing to me?

Shit, this is worse than I thought. Three orgasms in a row clearly went to my head, impacted my sleep, and made me delusional.

Once class is over, I pack my bag and shoot Royal a text.

There’s no reply, which makes sense. I don’t know what he needs from me at the arena. There was one time he forgot his stick at home, and Mom and I had to rush back home to get it.

To be fair, he was ten when that happened, and his teammates ridiculed him so badly, I doubt he’s ever forgotten his stick again.

Or helmet.

Or skates.

So… what does that leave?

Oh, God.

The blood drains from my face. I tried to be quiet last night, but what if he heard? What if he’s packed my shit and decided I’d actually be safer somewhere far, far away from Camden Church?

It wouldn’t be the worst idea, but it would also suck now that I’ve discovered the magic of his mouth. And that’s dependent on if he would use it again.

Now, fully convinced Royal is staging an intervention where he feels most comfortable—the arena, obviously—I shrug on my jacket and make the trek down the street from campus.

We’re having an unusual cold snap for autumn, and I hunker down against the sharp wind. The weather doesn’t help my darkening mood. There are a million counterarguments coming to mind to convince Royal that what Camden and I are doing is fine. Besides the bullying.

But finally, the arena comes into sight, and I head for the players’ entrance.

I haul open the door and step inside. I let out a breath, the warmth—and that’s saying something—basking my face. But where to find my brother?

They don’t practice until this evening, so… locker room?

My stomach twists, and I glance over my shoulder, like Camden Church would be waiting in the shadows to blame me for this.

Great.

I pause at the entrance to the locker room, my weight shifting back and forth.

Going inside seems a bit presumptuous, right?

Eh. A quick phone check reveals absolutely zero messages, and no one responds when I knock. Because who knocks on a locker room door?

So… in I go.

“Royal?” I call out.

I haven’t been in here before, but there’s a long entryway with cabinets, then it opens into the large room. It has cubbies all around the perimeter, the players’ names in plaques on the wood. Their gear is all set up, the practice jerseys and helmets, stick tape and random shit. FSU-branded towels.

Everything is in the school colors, purple and white. It’s not super overwhelming. The purple isn’t in-your-face loud. I find Royal’s cubby, R. Lawson on the plaque. And right beside his is C. Church.

Typical.

Together always.

I can very clearly remember when Royal found it hard to make friends. When he was always chasing after the team, trying to force himself in where he didn’t quite fit.

It seems easier with Camden. And maybe Lucas and Connor, too.

Camden doesn’t have a ton of stuff in his locker, but his skates catch my attention. It explains why they were missing from his bag last night. The blades might’ve needed sharpening or replacing.

There’s not much else in his cubby. What I do know is, Royal probably has candy stashed somewhere in his. Or those electrolyte gels—no, no, they’re more likely to be found in his hockey bag, which he’ll carry in himself.

Whenever he gets here.

Shit, I didn’t think I’d beat him. I check my phone and double-frown as the low-battery alert pops up. Did I forget to plug it in last night after filming?

My cheeks heat.

That’s the last thing I should be thinking about when Royal is about to stage an intervention.

Late as always, Royal enters the locker room. The hinges squeal upon opening, and there’s a whoosh as the door swings shut.

I sidestep so it’s not super fucking apparent that I was analyzing Camden’s space, instead studiously fixating on Royal’s stuff. Specifically, his purple helmet.

“There you are.”

My shoulders hike, and I whirl around.

Not my brother.

Max. He strides toward me, his expression neutral. Not happy. Not angry.

I stand up straighter.

He’s not wearing Shadow Valley U red today. He wears a purple FSU cap, a black FSU hockey sweatshirt with purple lettering, jeans, and white sneakers. He tilts his head, his eyes steady on me. His blond hair is hidden, but there’s no hiding the cool way he regards me with those dark eyes of his.

He’s here.

He left the flowers, then?

Not Camden. I never even brought it up with him—just saw the flower on his desk and assumed it was all part of the torture. I refused to mention it, in fact.

But what if I had?

What if I told Royal the truth?

I bite back a scoff. This situation would’ve still happened, just as Max designed. He found a way to get me alone.

Who knows how long he’s been watching?

“Harper, darling. I think you’ve been avoiding me.” He pauses in the middle of the room, dropping a large duffel bag at his side. It hits the floor with a dull thud.

I open and close my mouth, but the words seem to get stuck. I swallow against my sudden fear, my gaze glued to the bag. What’s in it? Things to murder me? Or kidnap me? My mind goes to ropes, blindfolds, handcuffs. A knife or gun. Something to subdue me if I don’t cooperate with his fantasy.

His expression suddenly clears.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it? I told you how I felt, but I didn’t follow through enough.” He nods, more to himself than me. “I understand that, Harper, I do. My mother was always waiting on my father. He told her so many lies that she just believed. It’s better this way. It’s better I prove myself. The roses were a weak attempt.”

I shake my head. I used to read about stalkers. The kind that turned violent—just in case. That’s what I told myself. What Max did in the beginning was innocent enough, but I always had the fear he would escalate.

He didn’t, though. Not in high school.

And now, it seems unclear. His expression isn’t mean or cold, it’s warm. Like the more he looks at me, the more he implores me to understand, the happier he gets.

I’m going to be sick.

I clear my throat. “I don’t think we’re on the same page about that.”

He approaches. I back up, hitting the seat of Royal’s cubby. My knees almost fold, but I manage to stay on my feet.

He grasps at me. My forearms. His hands slide down to my wrists, then my hands. His gaze bores into my face. “Harper. I left you flowers. I was telling you that you’re it for me, baby. You’re it for me. When you disappeared, I was devastated. But then fate put us back on the same path, and suddenly I could see again.”

Disappeared? It’s called going to college and not informing your stalker.

But I followed Royal, and my brother is easy to track. There are articles online about him, his performance, his stats. He plays for a great college—he’s going to the NHL. They say he’s one of the top prospects for this summer’s draft. Whoever they are.

If Max Keegan wanted to find me, all he had to do was find Royal.

And sure enough… that’s what he did. But by the sounds of it, he didn’t expect it to be so easy.

“I have a plan this time,” he continues. “I’ve got a job all lined up in San Francisco. You’ll never have to work a day in your life. And the weather there—it’s gorgeous. My family used to vacation there. You’re going to love it.”

“I want to work.”

It just comes out—but it’s true. Max and I have never seen eye to eye. Clearly. But what does he want me to do? Sit at home? Wait for him to return? Keep the house clean, cook dinner, service him, and rely on his income?

Never.

His next step forward, into my space, is more deliberate. I try to step back, but my heels bump into the seat in front of Royal’s cubby again. His grip tightens subtly on my hands, keeping me from sidestepping away.

“You know, it’s kind of cute how your roommate thought I was your brother.”

My blood runs cold. I didn’t think of that—I mean, I should’ve. It was right there in front of my face. I even thought it… but Cynthia said he was an FSU hockey player. Clearly, seeing him dressed now, he’s been playing the part.

“Let me prove my devotion to you, baby.” He brushes his knuckles down my jaw. “Or I’ll break your brother’s leg and make sure he never plays hockey again. But that’s your choice, okay?”

A chill runs down my spine.

He smiles and touches me again. My cheek. Just to prove he can.

And I let him. I stay where I am, frozen in place for a solid few seconds, until my senses return. I jerk away, staggering to the side. I yank my hand from his and put space between us, but this room, this whole arena, suddenly seems too small to contain both of us.

I’m too claustrophobic with Max nearby.

His gaze slips toward predatory. “Maybe whatever injury Royal sustains could affect Camden Church, too. He’s the one in your videos, isn’t he?”

Oh, fuck. The WatchMe account?

Camden never showed his face, though, so how⁠—

“You think I would let you stay in that house, full of untrustworthy hockey players, and not look out for you?”

He yanks my arm. I stumble after him, trying to keep my footing with his quick pace. My mind whirls, but no immediate solution presents itself. No way to get out of this without him escaping to come back another day and hurt Royal.

Or Camden.

“He snuck into your room. He defiled you while you slept, and you fucking woke up with your hand down your panties.” His voice is hard. “You think that’s forgivable?”

My eyes burn, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I don’t know how to handle this.

“I packed you a bag.” He gestures. “So you don’t have to see those awful men again. Your brother”—his voice cracks—“he let his friend assault you time and again, and he did nothing. Did he even notice? Did he not lay awake wondering if his baby sister was safe in his house?”

“I was safe there,” I say in a low voice.

“No, you were NOT!”

I flinch back like he struck me. He scowls and turns away, and I sink into the seat at my back. I lean against one of the side walls of the cubby and risk a glance upward.

C. Church.

Fitting.

When he turns back around, he has a pink rose in his hand. He comes forward and kneels in front of me, offering it out.

“Like it?” he asks, breathless.

No. No, no, I hate it.

My stomach rolls, and I swallow a few times to try and beat back the nausea. When I don’t move to accept it, he forcibly takes my hand and curls my fingers around the thornless stem.

I squeeze my eyes shut. He was the threat that never seemed threatening. Besides the roses he left in my room… that was creepy as fuck. But now, he’s escalated just like I’ve always feared. Everything I’ve read about how to deal with a stalker, how to placate them, has gone out the window.

All I can think is, I will not let him remove me from this place against my will.

If he’s escalating, it means I need to escalate.

I open my eyes and focus on the rose in my hand. My fingers tremble when I reach up and pinch one of the petals. I have a bruise on my thigh from where Camden pinched me last night. Crushing the velvet pink between my fingers reminds me of skin.

The floral scent assaults me, and I exhale a long, slow breath.

“There,” he murmurs. “You’re coming to your senses, aren’t you, baby?”

I stay silent.

“Now, there’s just one question that remains.” He pauses. His hands come to my knees, hot even through my jeans. “Was Camden Church the one in the videos?”

My breath catches. “What?”

“The WatchMe account, Harper.” His gaze darkens. “I saw what he did to you, and it matches some videos. But beyond that, I had to watch you demean yourself on your knees in front of him. Did you do that to test me? To send the message that I wasn’t doing enough?”

I rear back. “What? No.”

“Baby, I’m going to need you to delete those videos.”

“I—” I can’t exactly say I don’t have access to them.

That probably wouldn’t go over so well.

I set the flower aside and lean even farther back. He rises up on his knees, and he’s so much bigger than me that our faces are even like this.

I can’t do this.

“He’s never going to play hockey again,” Max decides. “I know I said that about Royal, but I mean it, Harper. You’re mine. You’ve been mine. And suddenly he thinks he can come in here and lay claim? Absolutely not.”

A chill sweeps down my spine.

“Give me your phone.” He drums his fingers on my knees.

I shake my head, but when his expression flickers to ice-cold, I find myself complying. He unlocks it without hesitation, typing in my code, and taps around on the screen. A second later, he tosses it aside.

Out of reach.

“He’ll come here. You’ll sit like a good little girl while I make sure he never hurts you again.” He rubs my thighs.

My eyes widen. “You can’t⁠—”

He sighs. “Is it because you liked what he did to you?”

It’s not like that.

“I can do that, if you really need it.” He leans in and catches the back of my head. He drags his mouth from my jaw up to my ear. “I can fuck you like a dirty whore and leave you tied up to the radiator like a free-use bitch, to be ready and waiting for me whenever I want. If that’s what you need.”

Revulsion slides through me.

My hand moves behind me, groping for something—anything—to help me.

I brush the toe of Camden’s skate and go still. Max doesn’t notice. His grip on the back of my head relaxes the slightest bit, and he drops his mouth to my neck. He kisses me there, hot and sloppy, his tongue tasting my skin.

I am not in my body.

It’s like I separate myself from it, not feeling it. Not reacting. I let him touch me and I hate myself for it. But I grip the skate and slide my finger along the blade behind my back.

My gaze lands on the rose.

He ruined roses for me. He ruined surprises for me. And being able to post my location in real time. Every social media post is delayed, any hints about where I truly am has been cloaked for the last few months. All in an effort to hide from Max.

With my free hand, I touch his arm.

He hums, content. Then groans when my hand moves to the back of his neck.

Then his hair. I knock the hat off to get a better grip, the strands just long enough to thread my fingers through.

I picture Max breaking Camden’s leg—or worse. The snap of bone is audible in my ears, an unwelcome echo that guides my movements.

The out-of-body experience only worsens when I tighten my hold and yank his head back. His eyes are glazed, his lips wet, mouth parted.

I move fast, the skate heavy in my hand, but I can’t think. Can’t process what I’m about to do. I drive it forward, across his neck. The blade catches on his skin, and it’s not smooth enough to be easy.

It rips.

The spurt of blood is shockingly violent. It hits my face and chest, splattering across my neck. Pause. Then again. His eyes widen in horror, mirroring mine.

I just did that.

I shove him away, and he goes, stumbling, trying to figure out what happened. He cups his neck, trying to stop the flow of blood. But it rushes through his fingers, dripping to the floor between us, while he gapes and gurgles.

He can’t save himself, can he?

“I will not live in fear of you,” I whisper.

His expression morphs into anger, and he suddenly stumbles back toward me. He releases his throat and grasps at me. His blood makes his hold slick, unstable, but he’s strong enough that it doesn’t matter. He pulls me with him, down on top of him, and fear floods through me that he’s going to use his last breath to kill me, too. His hands go around my throat, even as the blood gushes from his.

I scream and thrash, my lungs burning. I just need to last longer than him. And finally, his grip goes slack. I fall away from him and skitter backward, dragging my knees up to my chest. I wheeze, inhaling as deep as I can.

It doesn’t seem like enough. My head swims.

Suddenly, someone moves in front of me. My view of Max is blocked. Hands grab my shoulders and shake me, and I flinch. I keep going, trying to evade, but the hands are too strong.

“Stop. It’s me.”

Camden.

My gaze finally lifts and locks on to his face.

Oh, God. My eyes fill with tears, but he shakes me. Hard.

“No,” he snaps. “Don’t go into shock. Don’t freak out on me, little Lawson.” He glances over his shoulder, then meets my gaze. “What’re the odds this is the stalker you talked about before?”

My throat works, and it takes a long moment for a rasping answer to come out. “Hundred percent.”

He seems to consider.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Get in the shower.”

“W-what?”

“Shower. Through that door over there. You’re covered in blood.”

When I don’t move, he propels me out of the locker room and into the showers. Unlike all the girls’ locker rooms I’ve seen in the past, this one just has open stalls without curtains. He guides me into one, clothes and all, and turns on the water.

A minute later, there’s a bar of soap in my hand.

When I don’t move, he grimaces and goes for my shirt. I raise my arms for him to remove it, my resistance gone. He has me brace a hand on his shoulder while he kneels down and helps me out of my pants.

In my underwear, I step under the now-hot stream. It brings some of my mind back, and I rotate to find Camden still standing in front of me.

There’s a bloody handprint on his shirt. On the shoulder where I gripped him.

My stomach rolls.

“Is he dead?” I lick my lips.

The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, and I gag. I rotate around and brace my hand on the wall, my stomach cramping. The vomit sears my throat. I get a glimpse of the blood staining my hands.

“Don’t lose it on me. We’ll get it off.”

He steps closer, avoiding the stream of water, and plucks the soap from my hands. He lathers it in his hands and scrubs at mine, dunking them under the water until I can see my pale skin again.

“You’ve got it from here.” He clears his throat and steps back. “Scrub everything. I’ll be back.”

It’s all I can do to follow instructions. I face the water again, rinsing my face. Cleaning the blood from my neck, my chest. When I finally feel like I’m clean enough, and the water swirling around my feet is no longer tinted pink, I shut off the tap and step out.

There’s a towel waiting for me, along with familiar clothes.

My clothes.

My hairbrush and deodorant.

What the fuck?

It dawns on me that it all came from the bag Max brought in.

He really was planning on whisking me away.

I never would’ve returned to Framingham.

The thought makes me cold inside. I hurry to dry and dress, combing out my hair in hurried strokes.

When I exit back into the main locker room, Max is covered in a tarp and Camden sits in front of his cubby, his skate in his hand. There’s blood on the blade.

This time, licking my lips doesn’t give me the taste of blood. His expression is blank. Careful. He seems to be considering something, and that consideration doesn’t involve looking at me.

“You’ve always been a liability,” he eventually says. “To me. To my career. To your brother.”

I freeze. “W-what?”

“When did you know he was in Framingham, Harper?”

My mouth dries, and I shake my head. I don’t have an answer, and it’s then I notice he has the rose in his other hand. He sets down the skate, ignoring the blood, and runs the tip of his index finger along the edge of one of the petals.

“You saw him at a game, and it was then you mentioned the pink flowers he used to leave. I had forgotten that detail.” He scoffs. “I was confused why there were over a dozen roses in the bin. Confused by your non-reaction to it. But now, I think I understand.”

He sets it aside and focuses on me.

“Did you think it was me?”

Guilt heats my cheeks, and I nod. I can’t deny it. I didn’t know who to suspect—him or Max. But it remains true that I couldn’t tell Royal.

“I’m going to handle this for you.” He points to the tarp. To the body under it. “I’ll make it go away. If I don’t, you’re either going to drag all of us through a trial where they smear you to bits trying to make Max Keegan look innocent, or you’re just going to plead out and go straight to fucking jail.”

“It’s self-defense,” I whisper.

“They won’t care. That’s the way this world works, Harper. No one wants to see a woman protect herself. You’d be punished for it.”

My eyes burn, and my vision blurs. He’s right about that much. How many rapists get probation, or nothing at all? How many victims are retraumatized on the stand while trying to get justice?

Too many.

And what kind of questions would they ask about Max’s death?

Did you report his stalking to the authorities? Yes… in high school.

But not recently? No, I kept that a secret.

So you have no proof besides your word? You disposed of evidence? Right…

And did you ever rebuff Max’s attempts? Not in so many words.

Straight to prison. I’m not made for prison. I think I’m a relatively strong-willed person, but I don’t know if I could handle incarceration.

“I’ll handle it,” Camden reiterates.

This feels a bit like making a deal with the devil. I skirt around the tarp and drop my hair brush into the open bag sitting beside him. Along with my favorite clothes and toiletries, Max somehow thought to pack my makeup, wallet, and the rented camera from my photography class. The corner of my silver laptop, and a bit of the charging cable, is visible under the clothes.

Strange.

“What do you want in return for this?”

His eyes positively burn. “You cannot ruin Royal’s future, Harper. Which means: you disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“I don’t care if you talk to your parents. But you do not go home. You don’t talk to your brother. You stay far, far away from us.”

Us. He’s including himself in that, then?

His first threat… his first promise, as it was, floats back to the forefront of my mind. I can give you mercy, or I’ll drag you into ruin. Your choice.

In the end, I suppose, this sort of ruin is on me. I suffered his mercy for weeks.

Can I really pick up and vanish? Start a new life somewhere else? My parents will be confused, but I think it might crush Royal. At first, at least. If Camden came up with some plausible excuse, some horrible lie to tell my brother, it might make my absence easier to swallow.

Now, I’m choosing to ruin myself instead of my brother.

In the end, it’s not Camden’s doing at all. It’s mine.

And fuck, why does this hurt so bad? I may as well have cracked open my chest and pulled out my lungs.

“I’ll go.”

He nods, accepting my answer. “I know.”

“My parents⁠—”

“I don’t care what lie you have to tell them,” he interrupts. “If I hear that you’ve spoken to Royal, all this comes back to bite you. I’ll frame it however I want. That Max was our friend and you always had a crush on him. That you were the obsessed one. That Royal warned you to leave him alone…”

“I already said I’d go,” I snip. “No need to twist the knife.”

His lips curl. “You did plenty with my skate. I don’t have to twist anything.”

I hate him.

He points to my phone, sitting plugged into an outlet on the far wall. “I outfitted your phone with some new apps, as well as a train ticket to get you started.”

I unplug my phone and roll up the charger, stuffing it back in the bag. I zip it shut and hoist it over my shoulder.

I check my phone screen, only to see that he’s already called me a car from the rideshare app. It’s three minutes away.

“How?” I ask.

And I hope he knows I’m asking how the hell he’s going to handle this. Because he’s only a year older than me, and I don’t have a freaking clue.

“That’s for me to know.” He jerks his chin toward the exit. “And you to hopefully never find out.”

I take one last look at him. His perfect fucking face. The chill in his expression.

He doesn’t care at all. He doesn’t seem to even mind about the body lying several feet away from him, and the blood sprayed across the locker room.

“Go,” he orders.

I hate him. I repeat that when I pause to pull on my shoes. I repeat it when I exit the locker room, my spine straight, not daring to look back. I say it again out on the sidewalk.

When I’m in the car.

When my ticket is scanned on the train to Boston.

I hate him, I tell myself when I shed the first of many, many tears.

My heart breaks, and no one on the train gives a shit about my crying. About my life being ripped out from under me.

About never seeing my brother again.

When I unlock my phone screen and go through the new apps. Then, reflexively, I check WatchMe, only to find my stalking account has been logged out—and The Voyeur account has been logged in.

I can finally see the exact number of paying subscribers, and the bank account that’s connected is now also on my phone. It’s in my name.

He gave me control of this one thing while ripping away all the rest.

So why does it feel like the thinnest of lifelines?

I take a breath and fight the instinct to delete the whole page. I can’t—not if I am going to survive on my own. No asking my brother for help. I can’t handle asking my parents either. Telling them anything but the truth will fall short, and I will not risk that.

Camden said to make something up, but I don’t have a single thought in my head. No lie to justify why I’m running away.

I block Royal’s number and shut down my phone. I rest my head against the train window. My breath comes out in a long, slow exhale.

I’m on my own. It’s terrifying. It’s disorienting.

But it also feels like freedom.