Page 4 of Alchemy of Secrets

Holland’s palms tingled as she held the brown paper box in her hands. She was curious about what the Professor had mailed her this time. They were usually esoteric books or manuscripts related to the devil, which the Professor thought might be helpful for Holland’s thesis.

Unfortunately, Holland really didn’t have time to open anything right now. She set the package down in her hallway.

“Thank you for grabbing this,” she told the man. “But I’m afraid I have to—”

“I know you don’t have much time, but I’ll only take a minute,” he promised, and then he held out a pale cream business card with foiled emerald-green printing.

MANUEL VARGAS

Senior Banker and Inheritance Specialist

First Bank of Centennial City

There was a phone number at the bottom.

The opposite side of the card contained a map that marked the bank’s location with a star, and underneath it were the words By Appointment Only .

“I’ve never heard of this bank,” Holland said.

The Professor told a story in her classes about a bank, which was also by appointment only .

But it was the one story Holland could never seem to remember, and, for some reason, instead of being excited by the idea that this man might be from that bank, Holland was feeling unusually skeptical.

Centennial City, where this man’s bank was supposedly located, wasn’t even an actual city.

Holland had never been, but she knew it was a very old, very wealthy neighborhood within Los Angeles, mostly comprised of an exclusive gated community and a sprawling park where rich people did rich-people things like play polo.

She’d heard that, once upon a time, Centennial City was home to a boutique hotel, but the neighborhood residents had used their collective wealth and will to shut it down.

“Did you not receive my letters?” he asked.

Holland raised her eyebrows. “I’ve never received anything from this bank.”

“I’m so sorry. They must have gone astray.

My apologies. I had thought you were simply ignoring them, which is why I chose to stop by today, as a sort of last plea.

” Mr. Vargas somberly took off his hat, revealing more of his fluffy white hair.

“Fifteen years ago, one of my clients leased a safety deposit box. Shortly after, this person passed away. The box was already bought and paid for, and therefore it has sat untouched. But its lease is now about to expire.” Mr. Vargas paused to check his watch.

“The lease will end in twenty-four hours. If the box is not claimed before this time, then, per the original owner’s contract, the box and all its contents will be incinerated. ”

“And let me guess,” Holland said, “you’re going to tell me that I can claim this mystery box?”

Mr. Vargas nodded gravely before wiping a line of sweat from his brow.

“You know,” Holland said, “this is an excellent story.” And it was. It was just the sort of mystery Holland usually would have found difficult to resist.

But suddenly she realized why she was feeling skeptical.

It seemed like a hell of a coincidence that last night she’d given out her personal information to a stranger, after following one of the Professor’s urban myths, and then today, a different urban myth showed up on her porch.

Maybe this was why the girl from last night had muttered fools . Not because Holland and Jake were fooling around with actual myths and magic, but because their belief in them had made them stupid enough to share their personal information.

“I’d really love to believe you,” Holland went on.

“But this all sort of feels like a real-life version of one of those Nigerian Prince emails, where someone tells me I have a long-lost uncle with an embargoed fortune and all I need to do to secure it is give you my Social Security number, bank account access, and five pints of blood.”

Mr. Vargas frowned. “I’m not a con man.”

“You said con man , not me.” Holland moved to shut the door.

Mr. Vargas grabbed the edge with surprising speed. “You’re wise to be wary. But we both know who you and your sister actually lost almost fifteen years ago.”

For the second time that day, Holland swore her heart stopped beating.

This man is a fraud.

A con man.

He’s a liar , Holland told herself.

Most of her friends knew she had a twin sister. And a lot of people died fifteen years ago. This Mr. Vargas could have just picked that number of years to be dramatic. It didn’t mean he actually knew who she had lost.

Holland could practically hear her sister’s voice, sternly telling her to throw away the business card and let whatever was inside the box burn—if there even was a box. Leave the dead where they belong , January would say.

The problem was, Holland had never felt as if her parents belonged among the dead. Maybe this man was a liar, and a con man, and a fraud. But Holland couldn’t help herself from asking, “ If I were to go to your bank, what would you need from me to open up this box?”

“They’ll just need to identify you. However…” Mr. Vargas paused and lowered his voice. “If you do make an appointment, please do me a favor. Do not tell anyone else. Even if you don’t call this number, it would be best that you not mention my visit, or this box, to anyone.”

The First Bank of Centennial City did not have a website. And Holland couldn’t find an email address for Mr. Vargas, either.

Holland paced around her entryway, knowing she needed to leave for her meeting with Adam Bishop but feeling too distracted to drive.

Usually, she was all for chasing the clues, but this definitely felt like a scam.

Why else would this Mr. Vargas tell her not to mention his visit to anyone?

And, if it had been real, all he would have had to do was say her real last name, or one of her parents’ names, instead of alluding to a mysterious death.

Holland never said her parents’ names out loud. As far as everyone who knew her in LA was concerned, her name was Holland St. James. Her real last name was her best-kept secret.

When her parents had died almost fifteen years ago, it had been her aunt and uncle’s suggestion to change it.

Everyone had known who her parents were.

Their death was the sort of sensational story people still talked about today.

If anyone found out who Holland and January’s parents had been, that’s all they would think about when they met them—how their parents had died, and what their deaths must have done to these girls.

The sisters would never have their own identities.

They would just be stories for others to repeat, or subjects of media specials.

She thought back to last night, when she’d foolishly given her name and number to the girl in the alley.

Maybe the girl was a former student of the Professor’s and, after hearing the legend of the Watch Man, had come up with an idea to set up a scam to sell personal information to people who would use it for profit.

It made sense that students who believed in myths might also believe strangers showing up at their doors telling them they’d been left mysterious safety deposit boxes.

Holland didn’t want to be naive. If one of her parents had left her something, she would have found out about it before today.

She couldn’t call Mr. Vargas’s number, even if she was tempted to. Holland knew herself too well. Once she started down a rabbit hole, she couldn’t stop herself from going all the way to the very end. Falling never scared her as much as failing to find out the truth.