CHAPTER 57
They haven’t taken the photographs, and they haven’t yet contacted the identity seller, though Simone has looked at his profile on the dark web browser Damien showed her.
The blocky text, the strange skull-and-crossbones emojis, the clear criminality of it.
She wordlessly handed his phone back to him, and he didn’t press the matter.
They lie low, not wanting to leave the house, and chasing information from Moody. It’s a stalemate. Simone cannot bear to break Lucy’s heart by leaving without trying to find the British man.
They take showers; they sleep in. They read Moody’s vast collection of novels that line the walls, old American fiction mostly.
One John Grisham, evidently discarded halfway through – the spine bent to the midpoint, then pristine.
One evening, Simone reads a reply from Moody, who says he’s still following leads on the man.
She tells herself it’s still hopeful, though wonders if she’s delusional: they all know they are on borrowed time here.
In the evenings, they burn through his movie collection – westerns, Golden Age mysteries, cult classics. Lucy pontificates about extreme close-ups and how the post-production in Everything Everywhere All at Once was done in somebody’s bedroom. Simone and Damien pretend to listen.
Somehow, the police don’t come. They check the news once a day, and the stories gradually begin to dwindle.
Dishes keeps its Michelin star, for now.
Timeo tells the Daily Mail she’s the best boss he ever had.
The comments section of the article is unfair.
You deal drugs, you expect consequences, one person says, while another adds, Bet they’re escaping to Panama to live the high life.