The key is to kick the office chair to the side as I pull myself back into the vent. That way, it slides right back into place behind the desk and the entire room looks undisturbed. Except for the open door and my little note.
A total mind-fuck.
Step one of my new plan.
If you can’t beat ’em, you join ’em.
Or, in this case, you con ’em.
— 17 —
Phone Transcript, Lee Ann O’Malley Engages Hostage Taker #1 （HT1）
August 8, 10:20 a.m.
HT1: Do you have Frayn? Is he out there with you?
O’Malley: You know, this would go easier if I had something to call you.
HT1: Fifteen seconds, Deputy.
O’Malley: I’m not a deputy. Just putting that out there. I’m a civilian, like you. Unless . . . you weren’t always a civvy.
HT1: The words coming out of your mouth have nothing to do with Frayn.
O’Malley: Well, I do have a deputy here with me now. I’m sure you heard the sirens earlier. And the deputy informs me that Mr. Frayn was in a car accident this morning. He’s in the hospital.
HT1: You’re lying. Stalling.
O’Malley: No, I don’t do that.
HT1: Well, that’s unfortunate for everyone in this bank, then.
O’Malley: It does not have to be that way. I’m sure whatever you want from Mr. Frayn, I can get you.
HT1: We’re done here.
O’Malley: Let’s talk about—
[Call disconnected]
— 18 —
10:30 a.m. （78 minutes captive）
1 lighter, 3 bottles of vodka, 1 pair of scissors, 2 safe-deposit keys Plan #1: Scrapped
Plan #2: Work in progress
“Hurry, hurry,” Iris whispers as I lower myself out of the vent and back down into the office with them. “One of them keeps yelling out there. He’s pissed.”
I roll out of the way once I hit the floor, and Wes pushes a chair under the vent.
“Okay, we need to change our plans,” I say, standing as Wes scrambles up on the chair.
There’s no time for modesty. Casey’s turned her back politely, but Wes and Iris are busy, and honestly, the two of them have seen me in my bra, so I tear my shirt off, shake it free of as much dust as I can, and flip it back right side out.
“What happened?” Iris asks as she hands Wes the vent cover.
“I called Lee with the office phone while I was in there. They’ve barricaded the front,” I explain as I tear off my pants. Shake them, too. Back on they go, and then I’m grabbing my boots and flannel. “We can’t get out that way. The only way out is through the basement.”
“The sheriff—”
“Can’t make a move until SWAT shows up.”
“That’s gonna be hours!” Wes hisses, pushing the vent back into place and jumping down from the chair. I hand him the scissors.
“Is there dust in my hair?” I ask, bending down so Iris can look. She runs her fingers through it, getting rid of any fuzz.
“What are we going to do?” she asks.
“We need to separate them,” I say. “Sow distrust.”
“How?” Wes asks.
Before I can answer, I hear a loud “What the fuck?” from down the hall. And then “Check the rooms, now!”
They’ve discovered the open office door.
“Get in the corner,” Wes says, tucking the scissors into his jeans and under his shirt. He almost picks Casey up in his haste to get her out of the line of sight. We huddle together as the screech of their makeshift blockade being dragged away fills the room. There’s a pause, silence that stretches, unbearable, and then Gray Cap stalks inside, red crawling up his neck and eyes burning.
A vein pulses on his forehead. I can see it throb under the shadow of the cap. Wes breathes deep, like he’s trying to take up more space to shield us, and I can feel Casey shaking, her shoulder pressed up against the back of my arm.
Gray Cap slaps the sticky note on the wall in front of us, my You’re welcome adorned with a little star instead of an apostrophe for extra flair.
“Which one of you did this?” he demands.
No one looks at anyone. Wes and Iris don’t know what to do. Casey’s terrified.
I lift my chin, then I lift my hand.
And I smile.
— 19 —
Samantha: Dainty, Delicate, Demure
Being Samantha is the first time my mom pulls a long con since I was born. I’m old enough now, she tells me. I’ve learned enough.
I’m proud that she trusts me. I don’t understand the consequences. The differences between being someone for a few weeks or months versus being someone for years.