Chương 12
Celina cried too.
We hugged in the empty space while Gideon stood near the future reception desk holding three plastic champagne cups.
I had believed I was watching my sister finally get the thing she had worked toward for years.
Now I wondered whether I had financed the champagne.
Celina unlocked the door before we reached it.
She had changed clothes.
Jeans.
Black T-shirt.
Hair pulled into a bun.
Her eyes were swollen.
Nadine walked past her without speaking.
Celina watched her go.
“She hates me.”
“That’s not currently your biggest problem.”
“I know.”
“Show me the key.”
Celina reached into her purse and removed a small brass key attached to a red plastic tag.
The number 214 was written on it in black marker.
“You’re sure this is Gideon’s?”
“He gave it to me.”
“When?”
“June eighteenth.”
“You remember the exact date?”
“It was the day the plumber came.”
That detail made sense.
Celina remembered appointments better than birthdays.
“What did he ask you to pick up?”
“An envelope.”
“From box 214?”
“Yes.”
“What did it look like?”
“White.”
“Anything printed on it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You already said that.”
“Because I don’t know.”
She crossed her arms.
“I was carrying tile samples and arguing with the contractor about a sink.”
“What did you do with the envelope?”
“Gave it to Gideon.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Did he open it?”
“No.”
“Did he say what it was?”
“Bank stuff.”
My face changed before I could stop it.
Celina saw.
“Oh God.”
“Exact words.”
“What?”
“What exactly did he say?”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“He said, ‘Just bank stuff.’”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“Did you ever pick up anything else?”
“No.”
“Did Gideon come here alone?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
Her face tightened.
That question had two meanings.
I let her choose which one she wanted to answer.
“Maybe six or seven times.”
“To work on the salon?”
“Sometimes.”
“And sometimes not.”
She looked away.
Nadine made a sound from the back of the room.
“Could we keep the affair details out of the financial investigation?”
Celina flushed.
I almost told Nadine to stop.
Then I did not.
People did not owe Celina comfort because she had started crying.
“Where is the mailbox service?”
Celina pointed toward the intersection.
“Two blocks, then right.”
“Let’s go.”
She grabbed her purse.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Bernice.”
“I said no.”
“It’s my key.”
“That may be useful.”
“So I’m coming.”
I looked at her.
She did not lower her eyes this time.
For the first time all morning, there was something in her face other than guilt.
Fear.
Not fear of me.
Fear of what we might find.
“Fine.”
We walked because parking near the mailbox store was worse than walking.
Grant Avenue was loud with buses and delivery vans.
A man outside a coffee shop was arguing into his headset about flooring estimates.
Someone had left a broken office chair beside a trash can.
Life had developed an offensive ability to continue.
Celina walked half a step behind me.
“Bernice.”
“No.”
“I need to tell you something.”
“Then tell me.”
“I lied about the money.”
I stopped.
Nadine stopped too.
“How much?”
“Twenty-seven.”
My jaw clenched.
“So Gideon was telling the truth.”
“About that part.”
“Where is it?”
“Most of it went into the salon.”
“Most?”
“I paid nine thousand back.”
I stared at her.
“To whom?”
“Gideon.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
“How?”
“Cashier’s check.”
“From what account?”
“My business account.”
“Do you have the record?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this morning?”
“Because eighteen sounded bad enough.”
I started walking again.
Nadine said nothing.
Celina hurried to catch up.
“Bernice.”
“What?”
“I know how stupid that sounds.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid.”
“What does it sound like?”
“Calculated.”
That hurt her.
Good.
I disliked myself for enjoying that.
The mailbox service occupied a storefront beside a dry cleaner.
Inside, fluorescent lights hummed over rows of numbered metal doors.
A young man behind the counter looked up from his phone.
“Can I help you?”
Celina held up the key.
“We need to check box 214.”
He glanced at it.
“Name on the box?”
Celina hesitated.
“Gideon Avery.”
The clerk typed something.
Then frowned.
“That box isn’t under that name.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“What name is it under?”
“I can’t give you account information unless you’re authorized.”
Celina placed the key on the counter.
“He gave me this.”
“That doesn’t establish authorization.”
“Can we open the box?”
“Not unless your name is on it.”
“Can you tell us whether it’s active?”
He shook his head.
I appreciated him immediately.
Inconvenient competence was starting to feel like a gift.
I said, “If the box may be connected to identity theft, what is the proper way to preserve anything inside?”
The clerk sat straighter.
“You’d need law enforcement or a subpoena, depending on what’s going on.”
“Would you preserve access records if notified?”
“I’d have to call my manager.”
“Please do.”
He picked up the phone.
Celina whispered, “What if he empties it?”
“That’s why we’re not calling him.”
“I mean if he already did.”
“Then he already did.”
The manager arrived from a back office.
She was a woman in her fifties with silver-framed glasses and no visible interest in our personal drama.
I explained only what mattered.
Possible fraudulent financial accounts.
A key provided by my husband to my sister.
Mail connected to addresses appearing on my credit report.
She listened without interrupting.
“I cannot confirm the account holder,” she said.
“I understand.”
“I also cannot allow you access.”
“I understand.”
“If law enforcement contacts us, we will cooperate as required.”
“Can you preserve surveillance video?”
“If we receive a timely formal request.”
“How long do you retain it?”
“Thirty days.”
My stomach tightened.
“Thank you.”
Outside, I called Officer Hanley using the number on the incident card.
She did not answer.
I left a message explaining what we had found and gave the mailbox address.
May you like
Then I called the lender’s fraud department again.
This time, I wrote down every instruction.
