Trust

“I’m not the monster,” Dee says, and for a moment I know what she is talking about. I mean the real monsters are outside or even the man in front of me. He was part of this, but still I can’t trust her.

Maybe it is the desperate look or the fact she finds it difficult to look at me, her gaze sliding over mine as if she has something to hide. Fully dressed I look behind her at the lengthening shadows.

“What did you find?” Max asks, looking at me, but not turning his back on Dee.

“Well, they are there.”

“What?” Dee shouts, shocked. “You talked to them?”

I nod. “And a guy who offered us help.”

“Who?” Max asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Well,” I say. “That’s the problem. His friends are at the Tate Modern and he said they would escort us to the WHO. He…