Page 3 of Their Cruel Love

Seth:Theoretically anything can be done. Give me more info.

Using an encrypted, untraceable app (until the FBI or similar cracks it) that he suggests, I send him a few names, email addresses, and anything else that seems useful—all copied from Father’s files. A few days later, he gets back to me.

Seth:Whoa. Filthy stuff. OTOH it is a NO. I hack as a hobby.

This fraternity isn’t some government body that’s messy as a bowl of underfunded noodles. From what little I have gleaned, this is big, bad, and full of rich people who care about their lewd little wanky secrets.

We should probably burn this, self-destruct our phones.

Phoebe:Ha de ha. Burning mine as I type.

Seth:And our houses, our man-servants, and then run away to Brazil.

Seth does go a little overboard sometimes. He’s a surprisingly well-put-together piece of lean mankind with floppy black hair and a fondness for live theatre. He’s going to be wasted in web and game design. If I had any business acumen, I’d employ him myself, maybe in a start-up that steals IT property and auctions it off to competitors.

The dream slash nightmare still comes to me, every single night.

Today…

Today, I wring my hands on the frosted steel railing and eye the river. It’s not going anywhere. Well it is, but it stays too. Forever draining the diseases of London. The depravities, the crime, the sadness of a million, million people. God, I’m depressing as fuck. I need to be active and do something. Moping helps nobody. No one else is going to find Milli. Her parents are as useless as mine. Granted, Father is dead.

“Sorry,” I whisper an apology to my real mother. She died soon after giving birth to me. I will never blame her for that.

The tears dribbling from my eyes are for Milli. Something is wrong.

“Okay, dream. Fuck. I guess I’mit.”

I contact Sir Gregory again and bombard him with emails and texts. Finally, he answers and gives me a new number to contact. This is for the man she first went to—Razor. And then he tells me he is blocking me.

Yay, me. I give Sir Greg the finger, symbolically.

Razor.A rather ominous name and it cannot be his reallabel. I plan to say hi to him, and I really,reallyhope Sir Gregory heeded my plea and didn’t tell this Razor who I am.

I don’t want him or anyone else to know I am Phoebe Bartholemew of Bartholemew Jewelers PTY LTD, sold seven years ago after Father passed away, but still a nice, well-rated firm.

They’d think me rich and spoilt, when really, I’m only vaguely rich, horribly alcoholic, and a loser. I’ve spent so much of my net worth that my apartment is almostit. Granted, it’s worth close to seven million.

Selling it to chase after this nightmare would be foolish.

Because I can be stubborn and stupid, I contact the family’s favorite real estate agent, out of curiosity, just to ask what the going price might be.

I’m not going in unprepared like Milli, and I’m not enrolling for some week-long party of debauchery. First, I’m dipping my toes, testing the temperature of the water. There are things I can set up just in case someone tries to do something criminal. I don’t plan to end up dead.

I have Seth, my hacker friend. I can kick in teeth, if said teeth are not too high off the ground. And I’m determined as fuck. I had to inherit something good from Father, didn’t I?

I also have a collection of exquisite knives, a taste I acquired from Marcus all those years ago. Even at seventeen, he was keen on antique weapons. I heard he went into antiques after his family’s business went bankrupt.

The display case in the living room doubles as a low, glass-topped table. I slide out the left-hand drawer and pick up the bowie knife then the Laguiole pocketknife. Would it hurt to take one with me? A better question might be, would it help?

2

Marcus: You have an applicant?

Razor: Yes. Someone using a false name.

Marcus: You want me there?

Razor: You know her. I figured you might kill me if I didn’t say.

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