1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Good luck, Vera.
Good luck, Vera.
I had to dispose of the money, without handing it over to the police or leaving any trace behind.
If only I could spend it on something useful… I could buy my own place, set my mom up somewhere nice, and even get Paquita a fancy doghouse—one of those luxurious ones people put in their gardens. Paquita, by the way, is my mom’s German shepherd. With that kind of money, I could probably help Gina get a better apartment, too. It’s the least I could do, right?
I shook myself out of my daydreams.
I had a million pounds to burn, and it was time to get serious.
I pulled into the coffee shop by the office, the one I hit up when I felt like splurging. I jittered in my seat, fingers tapping out an erratic rhythm on the desk. Any other day, I would have spared myself some caffeine, but not today. I ordered a large latte loaded with extra vanilla syrup and a mountainof whipped cream, plus an avocado and salmon sandwich. It wouldn’t even make a scratch in a million pounds. But hey, every spending spree needs a starting point, right?
I’ve never been the kind of person with money to throw around. Picking the priciest dish off the menu was never an option, so for once, I was determined to savour the moment, excuse the pun, even if it was just for a little while.
I slipped into Bastian’s office at 8:42, the last swig of coffee still warming my hand. Bastian looked up from his desk, his eyes flicking to the clock on the wall before settling back on me.
“You’re late.”
“Do you have Ivet’s address?” I asked, ignoring what he’d just said.
He was slouched in his recliner, which he dragged closer to his desk, his eyes narrowing at my coffee cup like it was a personal offence. I drained it in one long gulp, wiped the whipped cream off my lip with my sleeve, and tossed the empty cup into his wastebasket. Perfect shot.
Bastian just rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but there.
“Let me find it.”
He didn’t have to look. He pulled a green Post-it off the edge of his desk and walked around to where I stood.
“Here you go,” he said, handing me the paper by the sticky side.
A single line of neat handwriting stood out on the note:
Bluegrass Street Number 5, Left.
I had no idea where that was.
“Thanks,” I said, one of the rare times I’d bothered to offer him any gratitude. I braced myself for a snarky remark, ademand, or some backhanded comment.
But Bastian just nodded. He raised his hand toward my face, and with the tip of his index finger, he made a quick gesture along my lower lip.
“There was some whipped cream left,” he said, smiling. Then he stepped back and returned to his place behind the desk. “Get to work.”
I blinked, my brain catching up a second too late. I wiped my lip again, heat creeping up my neck. Bastian was already back to his usual self, rifling through papers and paying no mind to me.
“Okay,” I muttered.
I turned my attention to the little note in front of me, willing my face to cool down. Work. Focus on work. That’s what I came here to do.
I ran back to my office and got my phone out. Ivet lived closer than I expected. According to Google, it would take me twenty-eight minutes to drive there from prison. That gave me a decent timeframe to work with: I could have ten minutes to speak to Julian Garros if I arrived at the appointment five minutes early and reached Ivet’s place five minutes late.
I had another ten minutes, starting from now, to overthink everything (my favourite activity!) before my nine o’clock clients arrived.
I laid out the cash from my bag on the table and began counting it, the total reaching 44.400 pounds. I wrinkled my nose, glancing at the cash. The number four gave me the chills, as if it were a bad omen. That’s Gina’s fault. Her parents and her brother visit us here once a week, every Sunday, and bring us containers of fried rice and baozi. InChinese, the number four sounds like the word for death, and her mother is extremely superstitious.
