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 . . .
That’s why they need him. And if he isn’t here?
Boom goes their plan.
No wonder they’re panicking hard enough to shoot. Someone might’ve heard the gunshot, but the bank is the only thing left in this once-full strip mall. And even if no one heard it . . . my text to Lee went through. Any minute, she’s going to bring the wrath of O’Malley Private Investigations down on these guys. She’ll probably rope in the sheriff’s department. They’re not great, but they’ll bring guns.
More guns aren’t always good, though. In most situations, more guns make everything worse. And cops always make things worse. But it’s a risk I had to take to let Lee know something was wrong.
“Lock the doors and go watch the parking lot,” Gray Cap orders. Red Cap scurries to obey, like he’s grateful for something to do.
He’s gonna be the weak link here. The mark, if I need one. My mind’s skipping like flat rocks on a still pond, trying to make a plan.
“You,” Gray Cap barks. Wes stiffens. His chest’s still practically in my face, and I can feel his muscles flex as I realize Gray Cap’s talking to him. “You’re husky. Drag him away from the windows.”
Wes glances down at me, just a one-second glance before he stands up, and the look on his face tells me not to worry.
Which, of course, sends me into a freaking tailspin. What’s he going to do? He better just follow the guy’s directions.
Gray Cap’s gun and attention are on Wes as he moves toward the security guard, and it makes my skin crawl. My hand twists in Iris’s, and she squeezes, trying to reassure me, but there’s none of that here.
Wes bends, hesitating as he tries to figure out the best way to move the guard without hurting him more. He hefts him up in one movement. Wes is tall and strong, and sometimes that helps him, but here, right now, it makes him the biggest threat in this entire bank to those men, and my teeth dig into my lower lip as he turns to look at Gray Cap.
“Where do you want him?”
“Over there.” The man gestures with the gun toward the little lobby area, where the kid’s still hiding under the table.
My stomach drops, because Wes hesitates. That gun in Gray Cap’s hand snaps back to him so fast, Iris sucks in a soft breath next to me.
“Was I not clear?” Gray Cap asks, and there it is. The anger in his voice. I’ve been waiting for it. Poised on a knife’s edge until I heard it.
There’s nothing like an angry man with a gun. I learned that early.
“Sorry, man, this is gonna hurt.” Wes shifts the guard up, his face twisting as the man lets out a punch of a sound, all pain and fear. Wes handles him as gently as he can—I can see how careful he’s being; Wes is always careful—but more blood spills down the man’s arm as Wes places him down in the lobby area, away from the glass doors.
Gray Cap grabs one of the heavy posts that holds a sign advertising mortgage loans, tears the sign part off, and threads the metal pole through the handles of the bank’s door, making it hard to flee and harder to breach.
This is getting worse by the minute. We don’t have police in Clear Creek; we’re too small and rural. We just have the sheriff and his six-deputy team, two of whom are part-time, and the closest SWAT team is . . . God, I don’t even know. Sacramento, maybe? Hundreds of miles away through the mountains.
“All of you, get over there in the waiting area.” Gray Cap gestures to where the guard and the kid are. We obey, and the teller joins us, her face still wet with tears as she stares down at the guard. Iris whips off her cardigan and presses it against the guard’s shoulder, and then the teller seems to snap out of it, taking over for her with a shaky nod.
“It’s gonna be okay, Hank,” she tells the guard. His mouth twists in pain as she tries to stop the blood.
“Are you okay?” I ask the kid. Her eyes are wide and glassy. She jerks her head quickly.
“It’s going to be fine,” Wes tells her.
“Quiet, all of you. I want your phones, purses, keys, and wallets, everything in a pile, right there.” Gray Cap points with the gun to the lobby table.
I place my phone and wallet on the table, Wes following my lead.
Iris sets her wicker-basket purse carefully next to our stuff, the red Bakelite cherries attached to the handle shaking at the movement. She glances at me as she sits back down, a gleam in her eye, and my stomach jolts as I realize what’s missing on the table: She still has her silver lighter. I saw her pocket it in the parking lot. And it’s still there, tucked in the folds of her vintage dress. The skirt is full, falling over Iris’s second-poofiest crinoline, and the dress is tailored so well that the pocket’s hidden in the sharp folds of cotton.
They don’t make clothes like this anymore, Nora. She’d said that the first time we met, when she was spinning in that red skirt of hers with the gold swirls. It had flared out around her like magic, like she was the flick of flame before an inferno, and I hadn’t been able to breathe around how much I wanted her to be something in my future.
Just like right now. She’s my present and my future, with our only weapon tucked into deceptive layers of cotton and tulle. She’s already thinking this through to freedom, and it’s the spark of hope I need.
I nod the slightest bit to let her know I get it. One edge of her mouth quirks up so her dimple flashes, just for a second.
Asset #1: Lighter
— 5 —
The Iris of It All
When I met her, I didn’t fall for Iris Moulton like a ton of bricks.
No, I actually tripped over her, like she was a ton of bricks.
One weekend last year, I’d been running some files downtown for Lee, and I wasn’t looking where I was going. Next thing I know, I’m falling ass over ankles, the papers are everywhere, and this girl, this freckled brunette who looks like she’s cosplaying a Hitchcock movie, is tangled up with me.