This Story Might Save Your Life(36)

“No.” I swallow. “How significant?”

There’s an eruption of voices on Price’s handheld. He excuses himself to take care of it outside, leaving Keller and me to stare at each other.

“How significant?” I repeat.

“A million dollars.”

I nearly gag. “A million…” Practically the entire contents of our shared holdings. My head whirs with possible implications. “You said ‘attempt’?”

“The account was frozen due to suspected fraud.”

“But where … who was trying to withdraw the money?”

“We were hoping you could answer that.”

Keller’s face is a mask. I’m not sure if she’s asking because she doesn’t know or because she thinks I’m hiding something. From my phone, I pull up our wealth management app. Sure enough, I’m locked out. “There—there must be some mistake. What does this mean?”

“Again, we were hoping you could answer that.”

I feel like Keller’s luring me into a trap somehow, but I can’t work out why. “Maybe our financial advisor can explain.”

Keller asks if I can put the phone on speaker, which I do, but it only rings twice before an automated message informs us the office is closed for the day. I leave a somewhat frantic voicemail that may or may not make sense, then stand.

“Do you mind if I—bathroom?” I point toward the back of the house.

“Go on, then.” She returns to her notes.

I take the long way around the sofa, watching Keller out of the corner of my eye as I approach the breakfast table. She’d need only turn slightly to the left to catch me slipping the laptop under my shirt, but she doesn’t, and it requires enormous restraint to maintain a normal pace on my way out. Locking myself in the bathroom, I stuff the computer between a stack of towels and press my hands to the sink.

The wild-eyed man staring back at me through the mirror may as well be someone else, but I tell him not to jump to conclusions. He’s done nothing wrong. My heart skips a beat as I repeat it to myself. I’ve done nothing wrong.

When I return to the living room, there’s a greasy bag of Beto’s Tacos on the coffee table. Keller is packing her things.

“You’re leaving?” I ask.

“I’m needed back at the station.” She holds my gaze long enough for my hair to stand on end and promises to keep in touch.



* * *



TSMSYL’S FINANCIAL ADVISOR, Alex, returns my call twenty minutes later. I don’t know him well, so I don’t get into details. I ask only about the attempted transfer, after which he puts me on hold for several long minutes. I pace the room until he returns.

“When’s the last time you logged into the account?” he asks without apology or explanation as to what he’s been doing.

“An hour ago,” I remind him. “Or at least I tried to.”

“Before that, I mean.”

I think back, but I can’t remember. I go into my banking app a few times a month to pay bills, and I occasionally check my own personal portfolio, but the corporate investment account is entirely separate. It’s where TSMSYL’s excess funds go after salaries, 401(k) contributions, and profit sharing. This past year was the first time we made a significant deposit, and that’s largely due to the tour. Most days I forget it’s even there. To me, the ultimate luxury of having money is not having to think about it. I see now how this is problematic. “Why?”

“Because—now, I could be wrong, but from what I’ve gathered, the attempted transfer was made through your login credentials on Tuesday night and set to go into your personal checking yesterday morning. It looks like the account was frozen directly after…”

Alex’s voice muddles as I scroll frantically through my phone, searching for the texts Xander sent on Tuesday night. I find them, and my breath catches.

I’d assumed he was referring to my secret meeting with Joy, but now I’m seeing these words in an entirely different light: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?



* * *



“I’M SORRY,” I say when Luna tells me she’s on her way. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“It’s fine. I was already in the area.”

“Not for this, though.”

“Benny, Joy is my friend. Of course I want to help.” She sighs. I recognize this particular sigh; hearing it defuses my anxiety by half. “I shouldn’t have left like that. I know this is hard.”

I have to fight back tears. “I don’t want your apologies. You don’t have to apologize.”

“Well, I don’t want yours.”

There’s honking in the background. A muttered curse. I’m about to ask if she wants to call me back when she says, “What are we up against?”

The “we” almost does me in. Through a swollen throat, I explain what’s transpired since we last spoke.

“Fucking hell,” she mutters.

She never curses. Never. But instead of shocking me, these two words fill me with their righteousness. I cradle the phone, grateful to have someone on my team who deeply understands. We’re settling into a comfortable silence when she says, “Benny, didn’t you say the tech team was done processing?”