Still. He knows.
I feel the blood drain from my face, cold settling in behind my ribs. I don’t say anything. Don’t trust myself to.
Because while they talk strategy and threats and contingencies, all I can think about is Adam.
And all the very permanent ways I could make him disappear.
20
Nell
Timetable in hand, I trail behind Cam down the concrete steps into the second house.
This one’s different. Sparse. Cold. Barely furnished. Just enough to pass as liveable—but it feels more like a holding cell than a home.
“Shops, coffee, then straight back,” he says, all command and precision. “Keep your eyes down. Don’t be looking out for them—that’s my job.”
I nod, pulling a deep breath into lungs that haven’t properly expanded all morning.
He’s calm and collected as always. Like this is just another line item in his schedule. But for me, it’s not routine—it’s survival. It’s Darcy.
Work? Yeah, that ship has officially sunk. I’m probably already fired. Though maybe traumatic near-kidnappings and international crime syndicates fall under the ‘compassionate leave’ category.
Then again, what am I even saying? I don’t want to go back there.
A desk? Emails? Pretending I care about Karen’s birthday cupcakes. No thanks.
I’ll find something else once this all ends and the smoke clears.
Assuming Cam doesn’t mind me loitering in one of his panic rooms until then…
I pull my phone from my pocket, barely a glance at the screen—but he twitches at my side.
“Tell me you’ve turned off location services,” he says, already bracing for disappointment.
“Location what now?”
Judging by the way he pinches the bridge of his nose, I’ve failed some unspoken tech security test. Again. He doesn’t even scold me this time—just holds out his hand, palm open.
I sigh and hand it over, sheepish. He slides it into his pocket like it’s evidence at a crime scene.
“Hey, I need that.”
“No, you really don’t. I need to make sure it hasn’t been compromised. Now move—clock’s ticking.”
Asshole.
How does someone even hack a phone that hasn’t left my pocket? What, did it develop a Wi-Fi addiction in its sleep?
Phoneless and mildly nauseous, I head for the front door.
The urge to throw up is clinging to the back of my throat, but I swallow it down. I need to be brave, for Darcy. For the plan. For the version of me that doesn’t crack under pressure.
The walk is uneventfully ordinary. Boring, even. Which should be comforting, but instead it feels like the calm before something terrible.
The shop? Dull.
The coffee shop? Worse.
