“The kid,” Wes whispers to me. His eyes are on her, too.
I know, I mouth. I wish she’d meet my eyes, so I could at least shoot her some sort of reassuring look, but she’s got her face pressed against the ugly brown carpet.
Footsteps. Fear kicks up a notch in my chest as Red Cap comes back. “Manager’s office is locked.”
The panic in his voice makes it crack.
“Where is Frayn?” Gray Cap demands again.
“He’s late!” the teller squeaks out. “He had to go get Judy, our other teller. Her car wouldn’t start. He’s late.”
Something’s gone wrong. Whatever they’ve planned, the first step’s been messed up. And when people screw up, in my experience, they do one of two things. They either run or they double down.
For a split second, I think they might run. That we’ll get out of this with nightmares and a story that’ll give us mileage at every party for the rest of our lives. But then, any hope of that gets shattered.
It’s like slow motion. The bank door swings open, and that security guard I’d been wondering about walks in, his hands full of coffee cups.
He doesn’t have a chance. Red Cap—impulsive, shaky, and way too spooked—shoots before the guy can drop the lattes and reach for his stun baton.
The cups fall to the ground. Then so does the guard. Blood blossoms at his shoulder, a small stain that grows bigger by the second.
Things happen in rapid movement, like I’m being sped through a flipbook. Because this is where it gets real. Before the trigger’s pulled, there’s a slim chance of okay-ness you can hold on to.
After? Not so much.
As the guard falls forward, someone—the teller—screams. Wes throws himself toward Iris and me to shield us, and we curl up tight until we’re this muddle of legs and arms and fear and hurt feelings that we really should be putting aside, all things considered . . . and me?
I grab my cell phone. I don’t know if I’ll have another chance. I slide it out of my jeans pocket as Gray Cap swears, stepping past our tangle on his way to disarm the guard and yell at Red Cap. Wes is leaning on it, so I can barely move my arm, but I manage to tap out a message to Lee.
Olive. Five letters. Definitely not my favorite food. Technically a fruit, just like the tomato.
And maybe the key to our freedom. For as long as I’ve known my sister, it’s been our distress code. We are girls who prepare for storms.
Lee will come. My sister always shows up.
And she’ll bring the cavalry.
— 3 —
Phone Call Transcript between Lee Ann O’Malley and Deputy Jessica Reynolds
August 8, 9:18 a.m.
Deputy Reynolds: This is Reynolds.
O’Malley: Jess, it’s Lee. Can you check to see if any silent alarms have been triggered at the bank? The branch on Miller Street, next to the old donut shop that moved last year?
Deputy Reynolds: You on a job? What’s up?
O’Malley: Not a job. Nora sent me a distress signal.
Deputy Reynolds: You guys have a distress signal?
O’Malley: She’s a teenage girl. Of course we have a distress signal. She told me she’d deposit the money the kids raised last night before coming into the office. I tracked her phone—she’s still at the bank.
Deputy Reynolds: Someone mentioned the bank on the scanner earlier, but no alarms have gone off. Let me check . . . Here it is. The bank manager was in a car accident on the way to work. They took him to the hospital. You think Nora’s pranking you?
O’Malley: She wouldn’t. I’m heading over.
Deputy Reynolds: I’ll meet you. Don’t go in until I show up, okay?
[Silence]
Deputy Reynolds: Okay?
[End of call]
— 4 —
9:19 a.m. （7 minutes captive）
They’re arguing. Red and Gray Cap. Red’s freaking as the guard lies there on his back, bleeding into the carpet. Thank God he only got shot in the arm. He’ll probably be okay. For now. But someone needs to put pressure on his wound, and they’re just ignoring him.
“I told you this was a bad idea. You said no one would get hurt. That we’d just get Frayn into the basement to open the—”
“Quiet,” Gray Cap growls, casting a glance toward us.
I keep my head down, but I’m listening to every word.
They’ve got to be talking about safe-deposit boxes. That’s what’s in the basement. Those things are gold mines of secrets. People love stashing stuff in there that they don’t want anyone else to know about. But if the bank manager is the only person who can access the basement where the boxes are kept . . .