Fifty-Three:
Cecelia Porter
I woke up in a cold room.
There was someone standing over me. Someone I recognized. Tall, pale, with blond hair and a vaguely Michael Cera quality about him. “Quentin?”
He smiled at me, pushing up glasses I wasn’t really even sure that I’d known he’d worn. “Hi, Cecelia.”
I pushed myself up, wincing. My leg was still in pain from throwing myself out of the van. “What are you doing here? Where am I?”
“I found you,” he answered, “well, MI6 did officially, but it was me. I’ve developed an app that can trace cell phones to the last known location.”
“So, find my phone?”
He sighed. “It’s not find my phone. Everyone thinks it’s find my phone.”
“Sorry,” I apologized, “I’m certain it’s great.”
I stared at him, still confus
