“No,” Rachel said with the emphasis of someone who was almost offended by the absurdity of the question.
“Well, I don’t believe you,” Haya said. “So, here’s the thing—if you two run on me, I will drop a dime on you before you can ever get near an airport. And I won’t just tell the cops. I’ll reach out to Cotter-McCann. And they will find you and they will fist-fuck you in the ass until you die.”
Rachel believed her. “Again, why tell me?”
“Because Brian would take his chances if he knew. He rolls dice. You, though, you’re not that suicidal.”
No? Rachel thought. You shoulda seen me yesterday.
“I’m telling you because you’ll make sure he comes back for me.” She indicated the baby. “For us.”
Haya was back in character when she asked Brian if Caleb was alive or not as Brian went over the game plan for what to do if anyone came calling while they were out.
Brian lied to her as Rachel had. “No. He’s fine.” Then he asked Haya, “Which shade do you pull?”
“The orange,” she said. “In . . .” She pointed.
“The pantry,” Brian said.
“The pantry,” she repeated.
“And when do you pull it down?”
“When you . . . text.”
Brian nodded. He reached his hand across the kitchen table. “Haya? It’s gonna be all right.”
Haya stared back at him. She said nothing.
Cumberland Savings and Loan was, as advertised, a family-owned business with a history in Providence County, Rhode Island. The strip mall that abutted it had been, until the late 1980s, farmland. Most every bit of land in Johnston, Rhode Island, had once been farmland, and that’s who the Thorp family had originally gone into the banking business to serve—the farmers. Now the strip malls were overtaking the farms, Panera had replaced the produce stands, and the farmers’ sons had long since declined a seat on the tractor in favor of a cubicle in an industrial park and a split-level ranch with travertine countertops.
The Panera was doing a bang-up business, judging by the number of cars out front. The bank, on the other hand, had fewer cars when she pulled into its lot at nine-thirty in the morning. She counted eleven cars in the lot. Two were close to the front door in designated spots—a black Tesla in the “Bank President” spot, a white Toyota Avalon in the “Cumberland S&L Employee of the Month” spot. The Tesla gave her pause—when Brian had described Manfred Thorp she’d pictured a doughy suburban yokel in a butterscotch sport coat and a cornflower tie, maybe with man boobs and a double chin. But the Tesla didn’t fit that image. She scratched her nose to obscure her lips from anyone who could be watching. “Manfred drives a Tesla?”
Brian, lying on the backseat under a painter’s tarp, said, “So?”
“Just trying to picture him.”
“Dark hair, young guy, works out.”
“You said he was middle age.” She scratched her nose again and spoke into her palm and felt ridiculous.
“I said almost middle age. He’s, like, mid-thirties. What do you see in the lot? Pretend you’re talking on your cell.”
Ah. He had mentioned that.
She lifted her cell to her ear, spoke into it. “The two cars by the front door. Four other cars in the center of the lot. Five employee cars against the slope at the far end of the lot.”
“How do you know they’re employee cars?”
“They’re all grouped together at the edge of the lot when there are plenty of closer spaces. That usually means the section is for employees.”
“But Manfred’s car is by the doors?”
“Yup. Beside the employee of the month’s.”
“Seven employee cars? That’s too many for a bank this small. You see any heads in any of those cars?”
She looked. The knoll backed up to a great red maple that had probably been there when the first Puritans arrived. Its branches were long, its leaves abundant, and the five cars sitting underneath it could have been sitting under a bridge for all the sunlight that reached them. If there was a suspicious car among them, she would say it was the center car. The driver had backed into the spot. The other four cars were parked nose-in. The grille emblem told her it was a Chevy. By the length of it, she’d guess a four-door, but the interior was impossible to discern under the cover of that shade.
“Hard to tell,” she said to Brian. “They’re in the shade.” She reached for the gearshift. “Should I drive over?”
“No, no. You’re already parked. It’ll look weird. You sure you can’t see into the cars?”
“Pretty much. And if I stare too long and there is somebody in one of those cars, won’t it look suspicious?”
“Good point.”
She let out a long, steady breath. Her blood slithered through her veins; the tom-tom beat of her heart echoed in her ear canals. She felt like screaming.
“I guess there’s nothing to do but gut it out at this point,” he said.
“Great,” she said into the phone. “Great, great, fucking great.”
“There could also be someone inside the bank. Someone just sitting around leafing through brochures or something. They could have flashed a fake badge, told the bank they were staking it out because of blah-blah-blah. That’s what I’d do anyway.”
“Will the person inside be smart enough to spot a wig?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will they be smart enough to recognize me under a disguise?”
“I. Don’t. Know.”
“Is that all you got? A Hail Mary and I-don’t-knows?”
“That’s what most cons are made up of. Welcome to the club. Dues payable at the end of every month and don’t park on the lawn.”
“Fuck you.” She got out of the car.
“Wait.”
She reached back in for her bag. “What?”
“Love ya bunches,” he said.
“You’re an asshole.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and shut the door.