As she walked toward the bank, she resisted the urge to look across the parking lot where the five cars sat under the shade of the maple. By the position of the sun, she guessed she might catch the light right just as she reached the door, but she couldn’t conceive of a casual way to turn her head that far left. She caught her reflection in the front door—honey blond hair that fell to her shoulders and looked completely unnatural to her, though Brian assured her this was only because she wasn’t used to it yet; bright blue, alien eyes; dark blue skirt, peach silk blouse, black flats, the uniform of a supervisor at a medium-size software development company, which is what Nicole Rosovich claimed paid her bills. Her bra matched the color of the blouse; they’d decided on a push-up bra with just a hint of cleavage, not so much to be obvious, but not so little Manfred Thorp would refrain from stealing a glance every now and then. If it helped keep him from looking too closely at the rest of her, she would have agreed to waltz in there naked.
Ten steps from the front door now and all she wanted to do was turn and run. The recent history of panic attacks had at least prepared her for a body awash in hysteria—the Saharan tongue, the spastic heart, the electrified blood, every sight too sharp, every sound too loud—but she’d never had to function normally with a panic attack. But now if she didn’t fake calm at an Oscar-caliber level, she would die or be arrested. Wasn’t really a Door Number Three that she could see.
She entered the bank.
The history of the bank was documented on a plaque just inside the front door and in a series of photographs within the bank itself. Most of the photographs were tinted sepia even though the bank had been established in 1948 as opposed to 1918. There it was as two men in ill-fitting suits and too short, too florid ties cut a ribbon. There it was surrounded by miles of farmland. There it was surrounded by tractors and other farm machinery on what looked to be some kind of holiday.
The door to Manfred Thorp’s office was as old as the first photo. Its wood was thick and painted a reddish brown. The office’s glass walls gave way to wooden or faux-wooden blinds that were closed. No way to tell if Manfred was even in there.
The bank had no customer service station. She had to stand in line behind an elderly woman who sighed a lot until the two tellers dispatched both their previous customers at roughly the same time. The male teller, dark skinny tie over a red plaid shirt, nodded to the elderly woman. The female teller said, “Help you, miss?”
She shot Rachel a vague smile as she approached and emitted the air of someone who was rarely present in a conversation but who’d learned her lines enough to imitate someone who was. She was about thirty, in a sleeveless top, the better to show off well-toned arms and a spray-on tan. She had straight brown hair that fell to her shoulders, a rock the size of a Prius on her left ring finger, and she might have been pretty if the skin weren’t stretched so tight against her face it gave her the unfortunate look of someone who’d been struck by lightning during an orgasm. She flashed eyes as bright as they were dead and said, “What can we do for you today?”
Her name tag identified her as Ashley.
Rachel said, “I need access to my safe deposit box.”
Ashley crinkled her nose at the counter. “Do you have ID?”
“Yes, yes.” Rachel produced the Nicole Rosovich license and dropped it into the tray beneath the glass partition.
Ashley pushed it back out with two fingers. “I don’t need it. You’ll need it for Mr. Thorp, when he’s available.”
“And when will that be?”
Ashley gave her that nothing smile again. “I’m sorry?”
“When will Mr. Thorp be available?”
“You’re not the first customer of the day, ma’am.”
“I never claimed to be. I’m just wondering when Mr. Thorp will be available.”
“Mmmm.” Ashley gave her another smile, this one tight with waning patience. She crinkled her nose again. “Shortly.”
Rachel said, “Is that ten minutes? Fifteen? How would you define it?”
“Please take a seat in the waiting area, ma’am. I’ll let him know you’re here.” She dismissed her by looking past Rachel’s shoulder and saying, “Help you, sir?”
Rachel’s spot was overtaken by a guy with snow-white hair and a shy, apologetic gaze that he dropped as soon as she stepped away from the counter.
She sat in the waiting area with a twentysomething woman with a blue-black dye job, a few New Age neck and wrist tattoos, and sapphire eyes. She wore high-end biker boots and high-end wrecked jeans and a black tank top over a white one, both under a white cotton shirt that was perfectly pressed but two sizes too big. She leafed through a local real estate magazine. After a few glances, Rachel ascertained that she was quite pretty under the dye job and had the kind of posture one associated with supermodels and finishing-school grads.
Not the kind of person one would assume worked for Cotter-McCann and spent her days staking out a bank. In fact, she’d barely looked at Rachel, her eyes locked on the pages of the real estate magazine.
But it was a suburban real estate magazine, the homes on the cover of the small Cape, starter home variety, and this girl didn’t give off that vibe at all. She was downtown loft space all the way. Then again, Rachel herself had leafed through plenty of literature that she’d normally never pick up in a variety of waiting rooms over the years; once, while waiting for her car to be serviced, she’d read an entire article on the best after-market chrome accents for your Harley, fascinated by the similarities between that article and one she’d read in a hair salon a few weeks prior on the best ways to accessorize your spring wardrobe.
Even so, the way this girl read the real estate magazine, her brow furrowed, her eyes studiously—conspicuously?—glued to the pages made Rachel wonder why she could be sitting there. The accounts manager, Jessie Schwartz-Stone, sat in a typical glass-enclosed office, tapping on her desktop keypad with the eraser of a pencil, and both tellers were currently unburdened of customers. The office of Vice-President Corey Mazzetti, also glass-enclosed, was empty.
She’s waiting for the same guy you are, Rachel told herself. Maybe she has a safe deposit box as well. Not something you usually see in the possession of a twentysomething at a hick bank twenty miles from a medium-size city, but the box could have been passed down through generations.
Who passes a safe deposit box down through generations, Rachel?
She glanced at the girl again only to find her staring directly back at her. She shot Rachel a smile—of confirmation? of triumph? of simple acknowledgment?—and went back to her ridiculous magazine.
The brown door opened and Manfred Thorp stood in the doorway in a light pinstripe shirt, red skinny tie, dark suit pants. As Brian had said, he looked quite fit. He had dark hair and dark eyes she didn’t like—they seemed hooded, although that could be because his eye sockets were slightly large for his face. He looked at the two women in his waiting area and said, “Miss . . .” He looked down at a scrap of paper. “Miss Rosovich?”
Rachel stood and smoothed the back of her skirt, thinking, Okay, so who the fuck is she waiting for?