Chương 8
The bank required Peter’s original authorization form, Mara’s identification, and access to a second key kept in the vault. The assistant manager, a woman named Denise Cole, apologized three times for the delay while avoiding the name Adrian Vale.
Rocco waited in the lobby beneath a framed photograph of Cedar Hollow in 1958. The building had been a post office then. Men in hats stood along the same sidewalk where an ATM now blinked SERVICE TEMPORARILY UNAVAILABLE.
Mara returned from the vault area after twenty minutes.
The brass key remained in her hand.
“The box is empty,” she said.
Rocco’s expression did not change.
“Are you sure?”
“It has dust outlines where something used to be.”
“When was it accessed?”
“Denise says the last recorded visit was six years ago. My father signed.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
Rocco looked past her toward the manager’s office. “Ask for the signature.”
“She said records before 2022 are archived.”
“Ask again.”
“She’s already nervous.”
“Good.”
Mara sat beside him. Her legs felt weak, and she hated that they did while his were motionless. “There was an envelope in the box.”
“What envelope?”
“New. White. My name on it.”
She removed it from her coat.
Rocco did not reach for it. “Open it.”
Inside was a photocopy of Peter’s affidavit. Across the page, somebody had written in red ink:
ASK HIM WHAT HE BOUGHT WITH RAY’S MONEY.
Mara felt heat gather beneath her collar.
Rocco read the sentence.
Neither spoke.
Denise emerged from the manager’s office. “Ms. Hale, I located the access image from 2020.”
She held a printed scan. At the bottom was a signature resembling Peter’s, though the H leaned at a different angle.
Mara had watched her father sign receipts, checks, birthday cards, and one regrettable petition about parking meters. “That isn’t his.”
Denise pressed her lips together. “I can’t make that determination.”
“Who verified it?”
“The branch manager at the time.”
“Who was that?”
Denise looked toward the ceiling as though hoping the answer might be written there.
Rocco said, “Samuel Vale.”
Her eyes moved to him.
“Was it?” Mara asked.
“Mr. Vale served as interim branch manager after retiring from the police department.”
Celeste’s grandfather had died two years earlier. His obituary described him as a protector of Cedar Hollow, a devoted church usher, and a man who believed civic duty began at home.
Mara folded the printout. “I need a copy of the vault camera footage.”
“It’s retained for ninety days.”
“Access logs.”
“I gave you the record.”
“Digital logs.”
Denise glanced toward the lobby camera. “Ms. Hale, I suggest you speak with an attorney.”
“Is that because you can’t help me or because you’re afraid to?”
Denise straightened. “Both.”
It was the most useful answer Mara received all day.
When they returned to the van, Rocco held out his hand for the red-marked affidavit.
Mara gave it to him.
“You knew,” he said.
“Knew what?”
“That your father took money.”
“It was in Ray’s letter.”
“Thirty-eight thousand dollars. Ray used some to get me out. Where did the rest go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your bakery opened the same year.”
“My parents leased it.”
“With what?”
“Loans.”
“From which bank?”
She stared at him.
“Ask him,” Rocco said.
“He’s injured.”
“He’s been injured since before you were born. That doesn’t make every lie medicine.”
Mara shoved the key into her pocket. “My father helped save your life.”
“And maybe he sold whatever could prove it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.”
“He kept the envelope.”
“He kept the part that made him look brave.”
The words struck with enough accuracy to feel cruel.
Mara opened the driver’s door. “Get out.”
Rocco looked toward the rain. “We’re in your van.”
“I know.”
“You want me on the sidewalk?”
“I want you out of my sight.”
He reached for the strap buckle.
Mara immediately regretted it. “Stop.”
His hand remained on the buckle.
She stood with rain running down the back of her neck. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
“I meant for a minute.”
“That isn’t how getting out works for me.”
She looked at the narrow parking space, the passing cars, the wheelchair ramp folded against the wall.
Rocco released the buckle. “People say things around chairs they wouldn’t say around stairs. They think the chair makes every room a moral test. It doesn’t. You’re allowed to be angry.”
“I’m not angry at the chair.”
“I know.”
“I’m angry at you.”
“I know that too.”
She climbed behind the wheel and shut the door harder than necessary.
They drove to the bakery in silence.
The crowd had doubled.
A local television van occupied the loading zone. Two reporters stood beneath umbrellas outside Luxe Hair Studio. Someone had taped a handwritten sign to the bakery window: KINDNESS LIVES HERE. Below it, another person had written in black marker: PAY YOUR TAXES FIRST.
Mara parked in the alley.
The rear door was open.
Rocco saw it at the same time she did. “Stay in the van.”
“It’s my bakery.”
“That doesn’t make the room safe.”
“It makes the insurance claim mine.”
She stepped out before he could stop her.
The storage room smelled of wet flour. Shelves had been overturned again. Bags lay split across the floor, white powder mixed with muddy footprints. The old desk had been dragged away from the wall. Every drawer stood open.
Mara moved toward the kitchen.
A figure crossed the far doorway.
“Hey!”
The man ran.
Mara followed without thinking. He shoved through the front of the bakery, scattering reporters and customers. She reached the sidewalk in time to see a dark coat disappear into a black sedan.
Rocco had rolled halfway down the alley ramp. “Mara!”
She ran into the street.
A horn exploded beside her. Brakes screamed. The black sedan turned through the intersection and vanished behind a delivery truck.
Someone pulled Mara backward by her apron.
May you like
Owen stood behind her, pale with anger. “Are you trying to die?”
She shook him off.
