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EIGHTY-SIX

NINE O’CLOCK. I PULL out of the parking garage of St. Benedict’s Hospital, looking both ways before I turn onto the street, taking an extra glance, wondering if I’ll spot Silas Renfrow — not that I know what he looks like.

He might be close. He might not. I surely don’t want to lose him. That wouldn’t make anyone happy — not Blair, not Silas. But Silas knows where I’m headed.

I drive toward the interstate, passing Hemingway’s Pub along the way. A number of makeshift signs — GET WELL, DAVID! — are planted in the lawn outside the pub, surrounding the Ernest Hemingway statue.

That statue, another memory: how much David and I fought over it when he had it built, just two years after the pub opened, while it still struggled financially. It would catch people’s eyes, he said. But the cost, I replied.

Little did I know he just had to grab some cash from a safe-deposit box to pay for it. One of so many lies he told me. His parents dying in a fire, growing up in orphanages —

No. Stop. Overload. I have to get through this. I am the only parent now. I have to do what the FBI wants me to do so I can return to my kids. Cry later, Marcie . Vent and fume and mourn when this is over.

I’m on I-57, motoring south to Champaign. Traffic isn’t bad at all for a Friday morning. But it’s heavy enough to prevent me from noticing anyone following me. Silas is back there somewhere; that’s all I know for certain.

It’s not long before I get off at the exit and roll into Champaign, heading for Prinell Bank on Springfield Avenue.

I reach it easily enough, a two-story building of brick and glass, nestled on a street corner. I pull into the parking lot and get out. I pull out the two luggage carriers I bought, stacking one on top of the other. Then I put the eleven empty duffel bags, still folded neatly, on top of the carriers and pull them behind me to the front of the bank.

I pause a moment at the front of the bank, just outside the entrance. Somewhere out there, Blair and probably a dozen agents are watching. I want to make sure they see me, the dancing puppet, doing their bidding.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe any of this.

I walk in, greeted by an elderly man trying to convince everyone that he still has dark brown hair. Behind him, tellers to the left, cubicles to the right.

“Good morning!” he says.

“Good morning,” I say. “I’d like to get inside my safe-deposit boxes.”

This will be the first hurdle. Do I have access to the boxes?

And if I don’t, what in the world am I going to do?

Don’t panic. Don’t panic until there’s reason to panic.

A woman, young, Asian, with a name tag that says JENNIFER, escorts me to her cubicle. I show her my identification and give her my name.

She types something on her keyboard and looks at the screen. I’m holding my breath, thinking of my next line if she says, No, sorry, you’re not on the —

“Got you right here, Mrs. Bowers.” She looks up at me and smiles. Relief floods through me. I could kiss her.

“Five of them?” she asks. “Five of our large ones.”

I nod. I’m not capable of speech, my body charged with electricity.

She grabs another employee, a young man who looks like he’s straight out of college, presumably to help with lifting the safe-deposit boxes. I follow them down a long hallway, past some bathrooms. At the end of the hallway, an EMERGENCY EXIT sign.

Can I exit out of my life?

Near the end of the hallway, a set of stairs. We take the stairs down, and we’re inside the vault. The woman, Jennifer, unlocks a door. We walk into the safe-deposit room. We stop at the first of my boxes, number 323. She turns a key, I turn a key, and the drawer slides open.

We then repeat the process for boxes 324 through 327.

“Would you like a private viewing room?” she asks.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Would you like us to help carry these?”

From what I read online, a million dollars, in denominations of hundreds, weighs around twenty-two pounds. I have no idea how many millions can fit into one of these huge safe-deposit boxes.

“Please,” I say again.

I step back. The first box is low to the floor. The two employees pull it out and lift it together. “Oh, not bad at all,” the man says. They move it into an adjoining room, a room without windows. I hear the box land on the table with a clank.

Huh.

They repeat the process with the other four. I try to act nonchalant, as if this were all standard and routine, as if the fate of my family were not hanging in the balance. But when they tell me that they’ll leave me now, and the room is all mine, I rush in and close the door behind me, my heart pounding so hard I can’t breathe.

The boxes are made of steel, around five feet long and three feet wide, a few feet deep.

I unlatch the first box and pop it open.

It’s completely empty.

I open the second box — empty.

The third, the fourth — empty. Not even a speck of dust inside.

I open the final box. Nothing inside except a large manila envelope.

I step back, dumbfounded, flattened.

Where the hell is the money?