He’s quiet on the other end. “Was there anything of use in her room?” he finally asks.
“I don’t know. I was going to look after I had her subdued but had to leave the moment the fire alarm sounded,” I answer quickly. “I wasn’t able to recover anything.”
“You didn’t take anything with you?”
“No. Nothing.” I’d stuffed the black bag under my jacket, so there’s no reason anyone should have seen me with it.
I wait for a response or another question, but there’s only silence. Finally, he says, “I understand she hurled a threat at you on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. One that involved me.”
“She was completely intoxicated. Acting crazy,” I tell him, but don’t deny what she said.
“It would be very convenient for you to come into possession of something that could be used against me and tell me you didn’t.” There’s a chill in his voice I’ve never heard before.
With a shaky voice, I answer, “I don’t know what she had on you. I didn’t find anything at her home, in her car, or in that hotel room. If she had it in there with her, it is nothing but ashes at this point.”
Silence. Silence that lasts forever.
What feels like an eternity later, he says, “We’ll be in touch.” Then he ends the call.
I lay my head on the steering wheel and take a deep breath. My heart pounds. My hand fumbles as I attempt to turn the key in the ignition. It takes a few minutes, but I finally get the car into drive, and I’m pulling away as more and more fire trucks arrive.
Two blocks away, I find a parking spot in front of a Wells Fargo bank and head inside.
Chapter 25
Present Day
Once we’ve entered the bank, we move to the desk where I will sign in to get inside the vault.
“Hi, how can I help you?” the woman asks.
I give her a smile I don’t feel. “Hi, I need to get into my box.”
“Of course! Box number and name?”
“Regina Hale. Box number 3291.” I pull out the ID I used in my last identity and the small key I’ve kept stashed away for months. She opens the ledger to the page for my box and I sign underneath the last—and only—time I’ve accessed this box. The day it was opened.
“You’ve got company outside. He just arrived. Standing near the steps,” I hear Devon whisper through the earpiece.
I let out a slow, deep breath while George and I follow the bank attendant through the vault and into a private room, where the walls are lined with little brass doors and a large table sits in the middle. She slides her key into one slot while I slide my key into the other one. We turn it at the same time.
Once the door pops open, she says, “Feel free to put your drawer on the table and take all the time you need.” Then she leaves, shutting the door behind her. It’s silent except for the clock on the wall. Tick, tick, tick. The room feels like it’s closing in on me.
George reaches inside the box and pulls the drawer out, the contents still hidden beneath the closed lid. He sets it on the table.
He stares at me. Five seconds. Then ten. We both know there is no going back to the way things were after this. I can see a touch of sadness and maybe even a little regret in his gaze, but I refuse to let any of my emotions show. Finally, he returns his attention to the box in front of him. Slowly, he pulls the lid off.
The only thing inside is a small, white origami swan.
A look of confusion flashes across his face for one second, then two.
The confusion shifts to anger. An anger so consuming that it feels like it sucks the air out of the room. His eyes narrow and his brows snap together. His jaw clenches.
Tick, tick, tick.
“I guess I don’t need to call you George anymore,” I say, if only to drown out the clock.
He picks up the swan by one of the little wings and twirls it around. Then he takes his time, slowly opening it up, verifying that the paper is blank. There’s no question that there is no information on either him or Victor Connolly in this box.
I was prepared for a lot of different reactions, but the unrelenting attention on the empty box wasn’t one of them. “I used to think you picked Mr. Smith because you were a big Matrix fan or lacked imagination, but you are literally Mr. Smith. Mr. Christopher Smith. Pretty ingenious, actually. Your name is already one of the most generic names out there.” I’m rambling.
A laugh escapes him but there’s no humor behind it.
He finally faces me, the unfolded paper still in his hand. One step, then two. Each step he takes toward me, I take a step back.