"He'll do it?"
"He'll do it."
She nods, so trusting. No questions about who Marcus is or how I know him. She understands that my past exists in shadows, the same as hers. We don't need to excavate every detail to know we're the same.
"What do you need from me?" she asks.
"Your dark web accounts. All of them. We need to burn them."
"I’ve already started."
Of course she has. Roxy's smart, smarter than most people give her credit for. She knows how digital trails work, how law enforcement traces transactions and communications. She's been selling art on the dark web for years without getting caught. She knows how to move.
"Good," I say. "We'll finish that tonight. Then we move the money."
"How much do you have?"
"Enough."
She doesn't push. Just sips her coffee and watches the horizon with me.
"We should ditch the van, so my contact can collect it," I say. "Before we cross into California."
"Good idea."
Her voice is steady, but I catch the slight stiffness in her shoulders. The van is her home, it has been for three years. Leaving it behind means leaving behind the last piece of her old life.
I set the coffee down and pull her against me, my hand sliding to the back of her neck. She leans into the touch, her body relaxing.
"New van," I murmur against her hair. "New everything. We'll make it ours."
"Sounds good."
"You okay?"
"Yeah." She turns in my arms, looking up at me. "I'm with you. That's all that matters."
I kiss her, enjoying how she melts at my touch. She's mine. We're doing this. And in one week, we'll be out of here.
By midnight, we're in a motel outside Lemstow. Luckily it takes cash and doesn't ask for ID. Roxy's laptop glows in the darkness as she systematically destroys her digital presence.
I love watching her work. She's methodical, deleting accounts, wiping servers, severing connections to buyers and platforms. Years of work disappearing with each keystroke.
"You're sure you’re okay with this?" I ask.
"I'm sure."
"You can't go back."
"I don't want to go back." She glances at me, her face illuminated by the screen. "This is forward, Dom. This is us."
I move behind her, my hands on her shoulders. She leans back against me, still typing.
"How much longer?" I ask.
"An hour. Maybe two."
"I need to move money."
