Page 21 of Queen of Nothing

The rumble of conversation, of negotiation, is my background music.

I drape myself over the chaise, flicking through the pages, and sipping my coffee until the glass is empty.

An hour later, I’m halfway asleep when Serena says my name.

I blink, startled, and look over at the desk.

She’s standing now, the man is gone, and she tosses my backpack at me.

It strikes my middle—and a lot lighter than when it was pulling down on my shoulder.

I loop a strap around my shoulder, then kick my legs off the chaise. “Where is he?”

“Gone to his safe, I imagine.”

“It’s done?”

Tired, she nods, and those circles around her eyes that aren’t really hers look a shade darker. “One hundred and sixty-five thousand, cash.”

I sit up a bit stiffer. “Is that a good deal?” My illusioned face creases. “For everything we gave him?”

It doesn’t feel like it.

That’s less than two months of my allowance. And I overspend even that.

Serena’s face is that of an older woman. A woman we saw at an airport a few days ago, with blotchy red cheeks and permed grey hair. An ordinary krum who blends into the background.

That unfamiliar face turns to me, pinched. “It will have to be enough. We need to dump everything in one place in one deal.”

A sigh slumps me. “One hundred and sixty-five,” I echo the words back to her, as though I can make better sense of such a small amount.

I sneeze that kind of money.

“It’s done.” Serena’s firmness bristles me.

I lift a dark look to her as she turns her back on me and runs her hands down her face.

I make to check my watch. But it isn’t on my wrist because I added it in with the jewels.

I drop my hand to my lap. “What time is it?”

Serena fishes out her burner phone from the back pocket of her jeans. The phone is a little black brick with a small green screen.

It might be older than I am.

She tossed her personal phone into the sea when the boat rocked beneath us.

“It’s almost three AM.”

I let a stretch rise through me, lifting my arms above my head. “We should get something to eat after this. Is there anywhere open at this time?”

“Doubtful. It’s not a nocturnal city.” Still staring at the time on her phone, her mind works. It works slow and sluggish, but enough that she decides, “There will be a filling station nearby.”

“A what?”

“A filling station. For cars.” She looks back at me, and the expression on her unfamiliar face is blatantly judgemental. “They have petrol to put in the cars…”

Before I can ask what that has to do with my hunger, because I don’t drink petrol, the door at the back of the showroom opens, and the man carries in three large, beige envelopes.