Page 80 of A Taste like Sin

words.

“I’m Juliana Thorne. My father has a security deposit box here?”

“Oh, yes! Your mother called the other day.” She rummages through a desk drawer and withdraws a

small silver key, which she places within my reach. “They’re in the alcove just past the security

guard. The number is on the key.”

I follow her instructions, my heart racing as I wonder what could be inside the harmless structure.

Each security deposit box is small, built into the wall, and no larger than a shoebox. Nearby, other

people hunch over their private sections, rummaging through their belongings before locking them

away.

When I finally gather the nerve to open my father’s box, I don’t find a glaring item labeledEvidence

of Simon. In fact, the only items here to discover are a genuine diamond necklace belonging to his

first wife, Bethany, who died when I was nine, and legal documents that look like they pertain to the

ownership of the house and other properties. Frowning, I strain on tiptoe and slide my hand over the

inside of the box. Just when I start to withdraw it, my fingers strike something soft and crinkly—a

single piece of paper.

It’s a handwritten note, but one penned hastily on official letterhead. It’s old and weathered, but I can

make out the barely legible font of the city’s precinct underneath a logo.J. Mirangas, someone wrote.

Age 8. Morrison, PA.10/28.

A wave of nausea washes over me and I have to brace my hand against the wall and close my eyes to

steel myself against the onslaught. The page is a crumpled mass in my fist, but I can’t loosen my grip.

I can’t even breathe.

My name. Someone from this police department—in another state, let alone jurisdiction from my old

hometown—gave Heyworth information on my case. Supposedly, he was asked to consult by the

Morrison police chief. So why would another official from a city hours away have written my name

down on a paper destined to collect dust in Heyworth Thorne’s private bank?

“Miss?” The security guard outside of the alcove stands in the doorway, watching me. “Are you

okay?”

“I’m fine.” Forcing a smile, I return everything to the deposit box and lock it. “Can I keep the key?” I

ask the girl at the front desk, who nods.

“Sure! Access to the alcove is available twenty-four-seven,” she chirps. “Just present your ID to the