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SEVENTY-SIX

I LEAVE THE BANK just as it’s closing, at five o’clock. They were nice enough to put my three new safe-deposit keys on a chain with a little plastic tag bearing the bank’s logo.

It is now full-on dark, and, like clockwork, the temperatures have dropped at least ten degrees. I pull my collar up and walk down the street until I reach the spot where my car is parked on the opposite side of the street.

I don’t know if what I just did is the smartest thing I’ve ever done or the dumbest. But I have to settle this problem, and I have to do it on my own terms.

I use the key fob to open the car doors, but I don’t hear the familiar crunch of the doors unlocking simultaneously. I pop inside the car and start it up.

And then I feel cold metal pressed against my neck.

I freeze.

“Hi, Marcie. Remember me?”

I look in the rearview mirror. The man is wearing a black ski mask. Balaclava is apparently the right term. To me, it’s just a black ski mask. Meaning it covers his entire face, save his mouth and his eyes.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen those eyes. Nor is it the first time I’ve been able to see his eyes and only his eyes.

Still a piercing blue color. Still cold as ice.

Silas Renfrow.