Lisa was two years older than me. She was so thankful to finally have a real home with real parents who gave a shit that she didn’t want to believe me when I told her about Phil and how uncomfortable he made me, how he stared, how he’d get too close, and how he’d bump into me by accident or brush my shoulder or hand as he walked by. She didn’t believe how the times he had to touch me—innocent times—were never innocent. She didn’t just not believe me because she also hated me talking about it. She warned me not to wreck things for her. We had always been so close, but we weren’t after that. We still aren’t.
I’ve never allowed myself to have a real fantasy because it always made me feel dirty when I know for a fact that Phil used to think about me that way. And when I think about something, anything that could be the start of a fantasy, I always think about Phil right after, which makes me ill.
Except that right now, it strikes me that thinking about the guy I just robbed produces thoughts about him. All I can think about is his large body, broad shoulders, and legs and arms the size of small trees. I don’t have any thoughts about Phil other than realizing I don’t have one and being surprised at that.
This guy, Kirian Cromwell, might be public fantasy number one. He’s potent, alright, like the sum of everything a regular person allows themselves to fantasize and then more.
The sudden sound of my phone beeping with an incoming message makes me jump. I nearly knock over the mug of hot tea before I right myself and stumble over to the table. I grasp the phone, but before I swipe the screen, I clear my mind of dirty thoughts as if they could somehow be read through my head and over my phone. Hey, who knows with technology these days, right?
The message is from Helen Cromwell. Either she was up waiting for me to complete the job—but she didn’t know I’d be going tonight—or she just stays up all night and haunts the halls of her house like a zombie ghost. It could also be that her phone buzzing with the photo woke her up, or she’s an early riser.
With a shake of my head, I stop thinking up scenarios for Helen Cromwell and just read her message. I have her number programmed into my phone, but not with her real name because I don’t do real names.
Badass Mysterious Granny: 2242 Leason Bark Street. Take the necklace to that address tomorrow morning at ten. My grandson knows it was a test, so he’s not going to call the cops, and you’re not going to be in trouble. There’s another fifty grand in it for you if you go in person and get a photo of you and him together with the necklace.
Okay, this is super freaking weird. It for sure sounds like a trap now because who would pay fifty grand just to have me return the necklace I was paid forty grand to steal? I’m beyond the starting point of thinking Helen Cromwell is crazy. Now I’m starting to wonder if maybe I am too. Perhaps I’ve hallucinated the whole thing.
I do a quick check of my account, but the ten grand in there from last night is very real, and the other thirty from just now is also real. I’m not hallucinating. At least, I don’t think I am. Then again, maybe a person can hallucinate logging into their account, but they’re not actually looking at it at all. But no, there’s no way. I had to type in a security password on two different screens. Could I hallucinate that?
Letting out a disgruntled sigh, I respond back.
Me: That sounds very much like a trap with police waiting. I want half the money right now as proof that nothing weird is going to go down.
Badass Mysterious Granny: Fine. Twenty-five now and twenty-five tomorrow when you send me a photo of you and him together with the necklace. But don’t have someone take it. Take it yourself, so this stays private. What’s the term for that?
Me: Um, a selfie?
I can’t believe I’m even considering it. This whole thing is beyond weird, and it seems like the kind of thing that got me into trouble in Seattle. Well, maybe that one was slightly less legit than this. This just seems like a wild old lady who has too much money and really wants to prove a point. I think. Or rather, I seriously hope.
Badass Mysterious Granny: Yes, that’s it. A selfie. Tomorrow? Ten? I’ll make sure Kirian knows you’re coming.
Me: Alright. Tomorrow. Ten. At the address you gave me. If it’s a trap, I’ll disappear with the necklace and your money, so don’t try and trick me. Remember that I’m quite good at hacking, which means things could get uncomfortable. That isn’t a threat. It’s a fact. I’m just saying.