Page 30 of The Square

He opens his mouth to say something. Probably something like… What’s the address? Or, Who’s he with? Or, Does he know we’re coming?

But he changes his mind. And because I know him—or at least I thought I did at one time—I deduce that he’s decided not to give a fuck about these details.

We just motored a boat halfway around the world, jetted another five thousand miles to London, so what is the point of knowing or not knowing anything when we are so obviously committed?

Besides. I am Christine, and he is Danny, and together we can do just about anything we set our minds to.

But then he surprises me by asking, “Do we need guns?”

And I surprise myself by answering, “Not yet.” But it’s a lie. Because I don’t actually believe that. I’m taking a chance with this plan. I’m hoping that the ties that bind are still strong and still matter, but I can’t know that for sure until we get there.

He sends a text to the driver and we wait at the curb in front of Debenhams until the car pulls alongside and we get in, me handing the driver a piece of paper with the address on it.

Danny eyes that piece of paper, then eyes me, but he doesn’t reach for it.

Is this behavior disturbing? Or comforting?

I go with comforting. Because it says he trusts me. And trust is the only thing that matters right now.

It takes forever to get outside London traffic, so then it’s another hour to get to the actual place we’re going. Danny’s restless and silent the whole time. Sometimes playing on his phone, sometimes looking out the window. Sometimes rummaging through the backpack he brought with him from the yacht, which doesn’t contain anything useful, per se. Like there’s no gun in there. There’s no knife in there. But he’s got snacks. And at one point he offers me a water, which I take, and a pack of unsalted cashews he took from the jet, which I decline.

I am starving but too nervous to eat, not knowing who and what is waiting for me on the other side of this long, boring ride out into the countryside.

But it is quite picturesque. Quintessential English in all directions.

And then, before I’m ready, we’re pulling up to the gate of the house, which is open. Almost welcoming. Which is a lie. But we pull through and continue down the driveway until all my time is up and we have to get out.

Which we do. Danny zips up his jacket, but I leave mine open because I’m suddenly hot and sweaty, even in the biting Surrey wind.

I wipe the palms of my hands on my jeans and walk toward the front door like I know what I’m doing. And when I get there, I stop, look over my shoulder to find Danny at my back, gather up all my courage, and knock.