My hands ball in a fist, my fingernails digging into my palms as I watch the London skyline blur past our window.
The driver will take us back to Owen’s apartment where we will get the hard drive, grab whatever else he needs, then head back to my safehouse.
Which is where I will be most comfortable. Prancing around London is not something I want to do. At the safehouse we can plan. I can plan.
I’m on edge, and I’m very aware that I have limited weapons on me. I have no idea the layout of Owen’s apartment. I mean, sure, I’d done some initial research; I know he lives in one of the new Vauxhall apartment buildings, I know where the exits are, along with the layout of his flat. There’s one thing you can always count on with these new builds—they are generic, and each apartment has an almost identical floor plan. Owen’s is no different.
“Andrews….” Owen says randomly from across the seat. The small gap may as well be an ocean.
“What about him?”
“You said he saved you?”
I meet his eyes and glance back out the window. MI5 is on my left as we sit idle with some traffic lights coming off Vauxhall Bridge. The high-rise apartments growing more regular around us.
“He found me on the street. I ran away when I was sixteen. I was homeless, but he took me under his wing.”
“You lived on the street?”
“Isn’t that what homeless means? Come on, Owen, you know between the ages of sixteen to eighteen, we transition to Adult Social Care. It’s even easier to fall through the cracks then. It wasn’t like we had a loving home life. You’d gone, home was hell, so I left.”
I glance towards our driver, aware that we aren’t alone in the car. It’s a subject that I don’t exactly want to hash out with him right now, especially with company.
“Can we do this another time?”
“How bad?”
“Owen.” I look at him with pleading eyes.
He studies me, reading my expression, then nods, his mouth turning down in a grimace.
This is for him; this isn’t for me.
He’s asking me questions to make himself feel less guilty for leaving. But you know what Mr, I’m not going to sugar coat my past to save your fucking feelings. That’s what I really want to say, the words sitting bitter on my tongue, desperate to escape like a bullet. But I don’t. I swallow them down.
“We’re here.” The driver’s accented voice interrupts my thought process, and I look out the window to see the newly builtapartments standing tall. I can’t see the top, with them being well over twenty stories.
The freshly laid tarmac and landscaping in the pedestrian area makes it inviting and modern. I open my door and step out, craning my neck to take in the full height.
“Nice. MP’s allowances have certainly improved.”
“No allowances. This is mine. Bought withmymoney.” Owen stands next to me, hands on his hips, following my gaze to the top of the building.
“Oh yeah! Like all the other politicians funded. Not an ounce of dodgy dealings, I bet—”
“Just shut up, Lucy,” he snaps.
I recoil, shocked at the anger behind his deep rumble.
“I’m so sick of your snarky attitude on stuff that you know nothing about. You are judging me based on our own shitty childhood, and I’m sick of it.”
He storms past me, and I am left standing, shocked at his sudden outburst.
How fucking dare he?
How dare he speak to me like that?
“He raped me,” I shout. The words fly out my mouth, not giving two flying fucks who can hear them.
