Chapter 3
THE DAY. Please, make sure to put that in the report with capital letters. I knew it would be a good day before it even started. The moment I opened my eyes, I just felt it. I mean, come on, it was Friday! Finally! Fridays can never suck too badly. It’s a rule.
I live with my friend Gina. We met just over three years ago through an ad.
She wanted to move to London, even though she wasn’t even eighteen yet, and was looking for a roommate who was already of age so she could sneak into clubs.
Meanwhile, I needed a place to live. I’m quite chaotic—too much so, according to her; she says it’s because my chakras are all out of whack—but we became close friends.
I’m a morning person. I relish taking my time getting ready and having breakfast. It’s a little ritual, small moments that are mine alone.
I follow the same routine every morning: I get out of bed, open the windows, and jump into the shower.
Gina, on the other hand, sleeps until three in the afternoon every day, so I try to be as quiet as possible.
Sometimes, after my shower, I’ll stand by the window a bit longer, pretending I’m out in the countryside, imagining the breeze wafting in is fresh and clean, and that the smell from the sewers below is something earthy, like cow manure, instead of…
well, what we all know it really is. Then, I close the windows and get dressed.
That’s exactly what I did that morning, in that order. And then I SAW IT. Yes, put that in all caps too.
I SAW IT.
A dark grey duffle bag, sitting at the foot of my bed.
Call me boring, uptight, dumb, whatever you like.
But if there’s one thing I’m not, that’s athletic.
I’ve never owned a duffel bag. And I know Gina doesn’t, either.
Come on, she wakes up at three and by five in the afternoon she’s splattered on the sofa, eating the daily special from the Indian place downstairs, and smoking a cigarette.
Tandoori chicken and a smoke. Palak paneer and a smoke.
Some days, I’ll join her after work for an improvised snack.
Gulab jamun and a smoke. If I ever came home and found her doing squats instead of sinking her teeth into a piece of falafel, I’d probably call 911.
What I’m saying is, as soon as I saw it, I knew that duffel bag wasn’t ours. And it hadn’t been there the night before, when I went to bed. Gina must have left it there. Maybe it belonged to a friend of hers, or who knows.
I tugged at the zipper, teeth grinding against each other as it slid open.
My breath caught in my throat. It sounds like something out of a dream, doesn’t it?
Waking up to a mountain of cash at your feet!
My heart pounded in my chest. There was more money in that bag than I had ever laid eyes on before.
“Gina!”
I barged into her room, the heavy scent of incense and vanilla hitting me like a wave. Gina lay face down in a sea of fashion magazines and torn newspaper clippings. Did I mention Gina is a design student? She didn’t move, refusing to give me anything but the back of her head and her butt.
“Vera? What time is it?”
“Quarter to seven.”
“In the evening?”
I navigated the arrangement of clothes thrown across the floor like a makeshift carpet. Gina’s mattress rested on the floor, so I crouched down, lowering myself to meet her where she lay.
“In the morning.”
“Ugh, Vera! I just got into bed.” She rolled over, her makeup smudged around her sharp gaze, her ruby-red bangs plastered to her forehead. Her long, black hair was gathered into a messy ponytail.
“Gina Meng. This is serious.”
“What’s going on?”
“Did you leave a bag full of money in my room?”
She blinked, confused. “What?”
“There’s a bag full of money in my room. It has to be yours.”
“How much money are we talking about?” she asked, stifling a yawn.
“I don’t know! Hundreds. Thousands.”
I could see the realisation dawning on her face. Her sleepiness evaporated, replaced by a sharp, focused urgency. Her hands darted, scrambling through the clutter for her thick-framed glasses.
“Are you messing with me?”
“No.”
“Can I see it?”
We both returned to my room. I unzipped the bag and pulled out a few stacks of notes, not daring to touch the rest. Gina was wide awake now, echoing the same words on loop.
“Shit, shit, Vera. Shit…” she frowned.
“You’re sure it’s not yours?”
“No offence, but if I had that much money, I wouldn’t be living with you.”
“Fair enough.”
She crouched next to the bag, sniffing one of the stacks, holding it up to the light, then sniffing it again.
“It looks real.”
I crouched beside her. “Are you sure you didn’t leave it here last night?”
She glanced up, her brow furrowed. “I’d remember if I had.”
“You were drunk.”
She looked at me as if I’d just suggested the world was flat. “V, you know I’m the stingiest person in the world when I’m drunk. I would’ve gone to bed hugging that bag! How much money is in there?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
We upended the bag. Notes fluttered out like a yellow storm; then, as the final stack of notes tumbled out, my eyes caught something different. At the bottom of the bag, almost hidden beneath the cash, was a plain envelope the size of a closed fist. A small note peeked out from under the flap.
My fingers hovered over it, and I rubbed the tips of my fingers over the letters typed on its cover. My name.
This bag contains 1,000,000 pounds in cash. It’s yours. You’re free to do with it what you want, if you follow the rules. There are only three:
1. Spend it within 72 hours, by 8:00 am on Monday, November 2nd. You can’t share the money with anyone who isn’t with you at the time of spending it.
2. Don’t contact the police.
3. Don’t leave any trace.
If you don’t follow the rules, André Saidi and Lesley Altringham will receive a copy of this
envelope I’m placing in your hands.
Good luck, Vera Rodríguez Malin.
Lesley Altringham is the university’s director. And André—well, I’ve already said who André is. Hidden between the money was a bigger envelope. My hands shook as I fumbled with it, ripping the seal with a jerk. I pulled out a slim stack of papers, my breath hitching in my throat.
The envelope held two files. The first one, my academic records, displayed straight A’s across the board, but the other file was much different. Unmarked courses, low grades, failures. After a moment of confusion, the meaning hit me.
“What is this?” Gina had managed to peek over my shoulder and now looked at the papers with a furrowed brow.
“A threat,” I whispered, the words feeling heavy in my mouth. I was the assistant to the lawyer of one of the best document falsifiers in the country. And now someone was using that against me.
She snatched the documents from me and examined them.
“No… I don’t understand.” Her face said otherwise. She just wanted a coherent explanation for something that was very clear, and somehow, still made little to no sense. “What does this mean, Vera?”
I gave her the only explanation I had. “Someone is trying to blackmail me,” I said, holding up the second document. “This one is fake. Look.”
“Ugh.” Gina squinted at the paper, holding it so close to her glasses that she almost pressed them down into her nose. “This is a very good job, Vera. I would have never known it was fake.”
I stuffed the papers into my purse, glancing at the clock. I had no time for this; André would be livid if I were late on the last day before my big trial. As Gina continued her barrage of questions—What’s going on? What does the note mean? Do you know, Vera?—I dressed as quickly as I could.
“All I know is that someone has falsified my academic records and is threatening to spread the lie around. If Lesley Altringham or André sees it, even if it’s fake, they’ll have no choice but to open an investigation. I’ll be suspended from work. My career will be over.”
Gina sighed. “But it’s fake. Can’t you sue whoever is doing this?”
I thought about it, then shook my head. “I can’t sue someone if I don’t know who they are, Gina.”
Gina stood in the doorway, blocking my exit. “Then why are you going to work?”
She had a point. But I couldn’t give in to panic and drop everything just because someone was trying to blackmail me. First, I needed some time to finish work, reflect on my options, and then, maybe, give in to panic.
“Because I have no choice.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“You’re saying we should just spend a million pounds this weekend?”
I couldn’t afford to lose everything I had worked so hard to achieve. Not for such a stupid reason. “We have to spend that money,” I cut her off.
I broke the zipper on my boots. Damn it. I chose a similar pair.
“I know.” Gina sprawled on my bed, propped up on her elbows, her gaze tracking my every move. “Maybe it’s a game,” she suggested, her tone half-serious, half-amused. I raced around the room, trying to make myself presentable, my eyes darting between the clock and my reflection.
“A game?” I said, trying not to mess up my lipstick as I spoke.
“Yeah. Someone’s making you participate in a sinister game against your will. You know, like Saw, but way less bloody.”
“I don’t want to play a part in any weird games.”
“Well, you’ll have to, right? Grab one of those stacks of money and take it with you.”
Ugh. I let out a sigh.
“How am I supposed to spend that much money in so little time?” I asked, frustration creeping into my voice.
Gina raised her hands as if the answer were in the air and she could pluck it out with her fingers. “Drugs. That’s it.”
I snorted out a laugh. Gina has always been the only person who can make me laugh, no matter the situation.
“Are you joking?”
“It’s the fastest way to get it done!”
“Yeah, that’s a great way to have the police knocking on my door to arrest me for possession,” I snorted.
“Or I could end up in some basement, kidnapped by a drug cartel that thinks they can get a huge ransom for me, only that when they find out my mom’s buried in debt, they’ll just kill me, and you’d come home to find my decapitated head hanging at the door. ”
“You know what, you could write a book with that imagination.”
“No drugs, Gina.”
“Okay. I’ll keep thinking. Maybe I’ll check your horoscope. I’ll let you know if I come up with something.”
I scanned the room, eyes flitting from the open dossier to the car keys and the crumpled bills by the door. Money. Now, I had plenty. I grabbed a stack of notes, maybe ten thousand pounds, and shoved it into the bottom of my bag.
“Wait, Vera.” Gina’s voice cut through my thoughts as I reached for the door. “Are you sure you don’t know who sent this?”
I bit my lip, overwhelmed. Fear, unease, excitement, and anger all tangled together in my head. My brain hadn’t processed the whirlwind of information I’d received in the last 30 minutes just yet.
In hindsight, it’s easier to piece it all together, but at that moment, I only had one thing clear: I had received a falsified document. I, the lawyer of Julian Garros, a document falsifier. And I didn’t believe in coincidences.
“No,” I told Gina, “But I’m going to find out.”
I grabbed the forged papers from my nightstand, stuffed them into my bag, and headed out the door.
* * *
“Wait, Vera,” Officer Alonso says, flipping through his papers.
The woman with the long face stops writing.
“Is there a problem?”
Alonso strokes his chin. André, standing close by, places a reassuring hand on my shoulder, letting out a heavy sigh.
“You skipped a part,” André says, his voice steady.
I frown, trying to grasp what I might have missed. But Alonso looks relieved at André’s intervention.
“That’s right. Let’s rewind a bit, shall we?”
My confusion lasts only a few seconds. Of course. I just mentioned Julian Garros, but I haven’t given them more information about the case. He’s another piece of this puzzle. An important piece. I smile.
“Okay. I’m sorry. Let’s go back to Thursday.”
Alonso returns the smile, pleased with my cooperation.
I know this is what they want me to tell them.