Page 20 of Johan. (Van Den Bosch #8)

Johan

After spending the afternoon at my parents’ estate horseback riding with Dad, who was fortunately home and ready to partake in the charade, I walk back through the familiar cobblestone streets of Cambridge.

The afternoon sunlight casts long shadows, creating a patchwork of light and dark.

Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of the afternoon still pressing on my mind.

Home always has a way of grounding me, but the responsibilities and expectations that come with it are ever-present, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts.

Now, though, I have a more immediate concern: Conrad.

Conrad’s penthouse is on Trumpington Street, one of the most exclusive streets in Cambridge.

The street itself is lined with a mix of historic and modern buildings and elegant townhouses next to sleek, contemporary structures.

Tall trees cast dappled shadows on the pristine pavement, adding to the atmosphere of understated affluence.

His building stands out with its clean lines and modern design, a striking contrast to the surrounding architecture's traditional charm.

The exterior is a blend of glass, steel, and polished stone, giving it a sophisticated yet welcoming appearance.

Large windows reflect sunlight, creating a shimmering effect.

Inside, the lobby is a masterpiece of contemporary design—marble floors, chic furniture, and tasteful artwork. On the elevator ride up to Conrad's floor, I briefly check myself out in the mirror. I look tired and miserable. Oh well, I guess that’s the result of living a lie.

As I reach the top floor, the doors open to reveal a private hallway leading to his penthouse. The exclusivity of the residence is emphasized by the quiet, almost serene atmosphere.

I pause for a moment, taking in the surroundings, and then I knock on the door, my heart pounding in my chest. The door swings open before I have a chance to knock again.

“Johan,” he greets me, his voice cool, his eyes wary.

“Conrad.” I nod, trying to gauge his mood. He steps aside, opening the door wider to let me in. I step inside, the tension between us almost tangible. As I pass him, I can feel the weight of his scrutiny. He closes the door behind me, and for a moment, we stand in an uncomfortable silence.

Conrad moves towards the living area, and I follow, noting how the setting sun casts long shadows across the room, creating a stark contrast with the sleek, modern furnishings.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, the politeness in his voice strained.

“Whatever you’re having,” I reply, trying to keep my tone casual, though I know he senses the unease in me. He heads towards the kitchen area, and I trail behind him, the silence between us growing heavier with each step.

“Tea it is, then,” he says, filling the kettle with water. The sound of the water running is loud in the quiet room. I stand beside him, watching as he moves with practiced precision, each movement deliberate and controlled.

“Are you still mad at me for yesterday?” I finally ask, my voice barely above a whisper, cutting through the thick silence.

He doesn’t look at me as he sets the kettle on the stove. “No, I’m mad at you for not trusting me enough to tell me the truth about Hannah.”

I frown, a knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. “What did she tell you exactly?”

Conrad turns to face me, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed.

His gaze is sharp, piercing. “I figured it out myself. The cover-ups, the weekend in Portmeirion, your behavior yesterday, your attitude every time I tried to date her…” His words hang in the air, and I feel a pang of guilt but push it aside.

“What I don’t understand, though, is why you’re engaged to Astrid if Hannah is your girl.

I know your parents insisted, but still, why go through with it? ”

I take a long, deep breath, the truth weighing heavily on me. “It’s complicated.”

“Is this just because of the money your dad owes to Ludovic?”

“No, it’s something else. It’s about Hannah. She did something that’s being used against me, and if I don’t comply, she can get expelled from Cambridge.”

Conrad’s eyes widen in shock, and he sets down the tea mug he’s holding. “What? So you’re being blackmailed or something?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

He shakes his head, disbelief and frustration mingling in his expression. “Why didn’t you tell me before? Jesus Christ, Johan, I’m your best friend. I could have helped you!”

“Because I can’t expose Hannah’s secret like that. It’s very private. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

Conrad nods slowly, piecing together the puzzle. “So Hannah did something bad enough to get her expelled. Astrid knows about it, and she’s using it against her if she doesn’t marry you?

I shrug, feeling the gravity of the situation. “She also intends to use the fact that I had an affair with a student to ruin my academic career. So there’s that.”

Conrad’s face goes through a range of emotions—shock, anger, sadness. He finally settles on a look of determination. “Jesus, Johan… Why didn’t you trust me with this?”

“I wanted to protect Hannah. I still do. But I also didn’t want to drag you into this mess.”

“You’re my best friend. I’m already in it.”

I nod, a small measure of relief washing over me as I finally share the burden. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, his expression softening slightly. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

For the first time in a long while, I feel a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, things can still be set right.

After a moment of shared silence, I clear my throat. “I need another favor,” I say, feeling the weight of the request even as the words leave my mouth. “I need to meet Hannah at seven. Can you cover for me?”

Conrad looks at me, his expression hardening again. “I'll cover for you,” he says, his voice firm. “But I won't tolerate you keeping Hannah as a side-chick.”

I nod, the gravity of his words sinking in. “I'm gonna fix this sooner than later. I promise.”

Conrad watches me for a moment longer, then nods. “You'd better. For everyone's sake.”

After meeting with Conrad, I make my way to Granta Place, heading towards Amelia’s flat.

The street is quiet, almost tucked away, lined with unremarkable buildings that fade effortlessly into the fabric of the city.

I step inside one of them, climbing the stairs to the third floor.

As I reach the apartment door, I knock gently, a subtle unease settling in the pit of my stomach.

A middle-aged Black woman opens the door with a warm, inviting smile that reaches her eyes.

Her natural afro hair frames her face beautifully, and she exudes a sense of calm and assurance.

She wears a mustard-colored jacket over a patterned scarf, her look casual yet tasteful.

The way she carries herself radiates a quiet confidence, and her presence immediately puts me at ease, even as I wonder if I have the right address.

“Johan Bentinck?” she asks, her voice steady and welcoming.

I nod, and she steps aside to let me in. “Come in. They’re waiting for you.”

I enter the apartment, following her through a narrow hallway that opens into an area that blends both the living and dining rooms. The apartment itself is sparse, more of a temporary refuge than a permanent home.

The furniture is minimal and utilitarian, with just a few personal touches that hint at the lives of its occupants.

As we step into the room, I see Amelia and Hannah standing around a rounded table. Spread out on the table is a large map, surrounded by various files and pictures, creating an atmosphere of intense planning and strategy.

For a moment, I am struck by a mix of emotions.

This is the mysterious Amelia van Wassenaer, the woman who disappeared over twenty years ago and is finally standing in front of me.

After hearing so many stories about her—her research, her disappearance, and the mystery that surrounded her absence—seeing her in person feels almost surreal.

Amelia, Professor van Wassenaer, I should say, given her seniority, looks up from the map.

Her long, silver hair cascades over her shoulders, framing her face elegantly.

She wears distinctive, green-framed glasses that accentuate her sharp, intelligent eyes.

Her expression is calm yet stern, and she exudes a sense of quiet authority.

She’s dressed in a simple yet elegant blouse and a dark jacket, a look that complements her academic demeanor.

“Johan,” she greets me with a nod, her voice calm but laced with an underlying current of concern. The years have etched lines of wisdom on her face, but her presence is undeniably powerful. “Glad you made it.”

“Professor van Wassenaer,” I reply, acknowledging her with a slight bow of my head, my voice a bit unsteady. “It’s an honor finally meeting you.”

“Oh, please,” she brushes off. “Just call me Amelia.” Before I can answer back, she extends her hand, and I shake it firmly.

Then her gaze shifts to the woman who stands beside me, and she says, “Johan, this is Dr. Angela Thompson, a dear friend of mine. She’s the one who found us this little hideaway for our meeting and any upcoming ones. ”

“Your name rings a bell,” I say, shaking her hand. “In which field do you work?”

Angela smiles. “I was one of Amelia’s teammates during our expedition at the site of Shisr.”

Amelia chimes in. “She's a geomorphologist specializing in ancient cities now, but you might have read her report about the movements of sand and how it affected Ubar.”

Realization dawns on me, and I recall reading some of her work. “I did, yes. Ludovic has a file about it. Impressive stuff.”

“Thank you,” she says, her eyes twinkling with a hint of pride. “Those were some challenging but incredibly rewarding times.”