Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
It’s my fault.
“Come,” Russell says. “The quicker we move, the better. Two people in town claim they’ve seen you. The less people spot you, the easier it will be to turn that claim into a false rumor.”
“Mint and Olga.” I twist the leather string around my finger as I ponder the implications. “It’s in the news?”
“The police tried to squash the story of you robbing the jewelry store, but it leaked out on social media. Detective Hackman maintains you’re dead. Hopefully, the tale will soon be nothing but an urban legend.”
“If it’s an urban legend, how do they explain the robbery?”
Humor sparks in his eyes. “Since the diamonds haven’t been found, speculation is that Mr. Visser and his shop assistant fabricated the theft to claim the insurance money.”
“The media fell for that?”
“As I said, everything is speculation at the moment, but it’s a sensational story. It’s guaranteed to sell newspapers. The media will definitely run with it, if only to boost their circulation figures.” He opens the closet and peers inside. “How much time do you need to pack?”
I hesitate.
He crosses the floor and stops in front of me. “You need to get out of this town. It’s the clever thing to do. If not for yourself, do it for Ian.”
Ian. Russell is right. I can’t do anything for him stuck in Rustenburg.
I lift my bag from the bed. It’s not heavy, but the strain it puts on my shoulder reminds me my wound hasn’t completely healed.
Russell holds the door for me. He leads the way to the underground parking. After making sure the lot is deserted, he unlocks a black city car. A cap and sunglasses lie on the passenger seat.
“Just in case you don’t have some,” he says, motioning at the items as he starts the engine.
I hide my hair under my cap and fit the sunglasses as he exits the parking. The morning peak hour is over. Going via the Hartbeespoort Dam, it doesn’t take more than ninety minutes to arrive in Johannesburg.
“Damian lives at the Vaal River,” Russell says, glancing in his side mirror as he takes the offramp to Braamfontein. “You’ll stay in the city. It’s easier hiding you among the masses than in an exclusive riverbank estate.”
I don’t care where I go as long as I can find my way back to Ian. Sinking lower in my seat, I take in the train station below the bridge as we cross town.
“Damian owns the building,” he continues. “The apartment doesn’t look like much, but you’ll be safe there.”
In the heart of Braamfontein, he passes the office buildings and stops in front of an apartment block. I reach for my bag, but he snatches it from the back.
It’s close to noon. The street is busy. Many people are making their way to an early lunch. No one spares us a glance as we enter a big lobby with nothing but a desk in the far corner. The concierge looks up and gives Russell a thumbs-up sign. Russell returns the greeting with a sharp nod. He ushers me into an elevator that must date from the sixties and pushes the button for the tenth floor. The elevator jerks to life, making a shaky ascent.
When the door opens, he gets out ahead of me, scans the hallway, and makes his way to the end. The building is old but well maintained. The paint on the walls is fresh, and the floors are shiny.
At the last door, he stops. “This is you.”
Taking the keycard from my pocket, I unlock the electronic lock and enter a studio apartment. Russell follows me inside. The single living space contains a bed, desk, chair, kitchenette, and a television mounted on the wall. A door leading off to the side gives access to a bathroom.
He puts my backpack on the bed. “You can use your phone to reach Damian if you must. It’s secure. There’s food in the fridge. If it’s not to your liking, there’s a grocery store down the road, but I suggest you don’t wander around. If you need anything, dial Simon downstairs. He’ll run errands for you.” He shows me an intercom phone on the wall. “Press 9. It’ll connect you to reception.”
I walk to the window, which gives a view of the Braamfontein Hotel. “What is this place?”
“A refuge for prisoners getting out of jail. It’s an intermediate place to stay while acclimatizing. There’s a canteen on the first floor, but as I said, you shouldn’t hang around where people can get a look at you.”
“Right.” Bracing my palms on the windowsill, I stare down at the street. There’s no balcony. I already feel like suffocating. When I imagine Ian in a jail cell, my chest draws so tight it’s hard to breathe.
“If you need me—”
“I’ll call.”
“Yes,” he says to my back, still in the same, friendly tone.