BunnytheKiller
My rules are here for both of our protection.
Blake
On video call then. Far more deniable.
BunnytheKiller
Voice. Voice only.
I grin. She’s going to talk to me.
I’ll take it.
6
NINA
I’ve had more fun in the last week, talking to Blake, than I’ve had in twenty-two years. It takes all my self-control not to reply immediately and keep it going. Every time I leave him on read but don’t answer, the rest of the day I think about what I could say. What he’d say.
I can’t. Aaron’s life is literally at stake, and I have to remind myself of that constantly. Otherwise, I’d give in, for sure.
But each new notification, I can’t resist. Trading messages with Blake makes me smile so wide my cheeks hurt.
His offer of money that could get Aaron and me out of London, combined with what I most want, to talk to Blake and hear his voice, was too much. Irresistible.
Risky, yes. But as soon as I have the conversation with Blake, that’ll be enough. I’ll have had all the thrill I could ever need. I’ll finally tell Aaron what has happened, and we’ll leave London and set up a new life with the money.
I should be more positive about that second part, but the thought of never messaging Blake again puts rocks in my stomach.
I take the train to London Bridge, right in the centre of the city, then the underground to Paddington. I try and fail not to think about Blake as I go.
How he could be watching me. Following me.
But I checked online, and Paddington is trusted. Paddington keeps secrets and gives things to their rightful owners.
It looks like a left-luggage facility, and the American family in front of me with suitcases, chattering about their vacation, confirms that it has a true double purpose.
There’s no one behind me, thankfully, as I show the reference to the middle-aged lady working there.
“No problem.” She nods, and taps away at a keyboard, before eventually opening a tiny lockbox and withdrawing a small package.
My heart rate surges. I wonder if Blake left that for me himself. If he touched it. She lays it on the counter.
“See here,” the clerk says, and shows me on her device. “It’s on your app too.” There are lists of the various tests they’ve done to ensure it’s safe, and what’s inside. Green ticks show the absence of a scarily detailed list of substances.
“And we’ve cleaned the funds so they’re fine to move into your account.” She looks me up and down. “Are you aware of best practices for not attracting the attention of the authorities?”
“No,” I admit in a small voice, and she smiles understandingly, then tells me a load of information about ensuring the money appears legit, and spending it carefully.
Then she explains the process for leaving in anonymity, including which platforms I can choose to go to—they change constantly—and how to double back so I’m protected from being followed.
It takes two hours to get back across London, because I’m perhaps a bit overcautious. My heart hammers in my chest as I close the door of the apartment.
Then that’s it. I’m home, safe.
My hands shake as I open the little package and look at the data drive. I go through a dozen cycles of wondering if it’s too risky to actually look at the money.
