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.
I’ve never understood the appeal of paying someone five quid to make something I can do at home for free. What’s the draw—a splash of ethically harvested mocha-vanilla-soul infusion and oat milk kissed by angels? No, thank you.
But routine is routine.
So, I grit my teeth, slide a crumpled note across the counter, and accept my overpriced, lukewarm cup of caffeine conformity like it’s a chore. Because it is.
Even though I’ve been deliberately avoiding any suspicious glances or death stares at the unaware bystanders surrounding me—just like Cam drilled into me—I haven’t seen a thing. Not a flicker of unease. Not a car idling too long at the curb. Not even a stranger holding eye contact a second too long.
Nothing.
Which, in a way, is worse.
Because I know how they operate now. I’ve seen the clips. I’ve read the files. The calm before the storm isn’t calming when you know the storm is trained to be silent. Unseen. Fast. That’s how they slip through the cracks—how they vanish girls like Darcy without leaving a single thread behind.
But routine is routine.
Trip one—done.
I make it back to the house with my coffee—now lukewarm and slightly bitter—and a small grocery bag digging into my fingers. Not that I’ll be allowed near the stove. I have a sneaking suspicion that after the milk incident, my kitchen privileges are officially revoked. Cam probably has the spatulas locked up somewhere.
The second house still feels hollow. A skeleton of a home. Furniture exists in the most literal sense—chair, table, sofa—but none of it feels lived in. No photographs, no warmth, no history. Just space disguised as comfort.
I may not be a believer in ghosts, but there’s definitely something creepy about this house, and the quicker I hurry to the safety and warmth of the main house, the less frosty I feel.
Talia’s gone, but Cameron is still here. Through the panes of glass that segment his office from the rest of the space, I catch a glimpse of him mid-call. Laptop open, hand gesturing toward something on-screen. He’s calm, composed, entirely focused.
I envy that.
Because while he’s discussing strategy with military precision, I’m standing here holding a bag of groceries and a coffee I didn’t want, trying to pretend I don’t feel like an exposed nerve—just waiting to be touched in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Boomerang greets me with a banshee-level shriek, flinging himself at the empty food bowl like he’s been starved for days—not that the soft swell of his belly supports that narrative. At least someone’s adjusted to our new life of hiding and overpriced lattes.
He waddles over with the smug entitlement of a cat who knows he has prime real estate. Tail high, pupils wide, a look that says, Yeah, I could get used to this.
Shame, really. He pulled the short straw being stuck with me.
But he’s not going anywhere—not now, not after all of this. He’s coming with me, fur and attitude and all, because let’s be honest; the second this is over, Cameron’s going to boot me out the front door just to preserve what’s left of his sanity.
And Boomerang? He’s my emotional support gremlin.