39. Bindi
THIRTY-NINE
BINDI
The next morning, Cassidy made the call to stay another night in the motel—said I needed the rest. Said with Anthony dead, we had breathing room for the first time in weeks. No more hiding. No one is chasing us . . . at least not yet.
So we spent the day pretending we were normal. Got breakfast at a diner shaped like a train car. Walked through the shops downtown like tourists, holding hands.
It was the closest thing to a date we’d ever had, and it almost felt like a life. But by nightfall, the fantasy cracked.
“How much cash we got left?”
I know exactly how much we have. Slowly, I unzip my jacket and fish the folded wad of bills from the inside pocket. Peeling it open, I thumb through the money.
“Two hundred and thirteen dollars . . . give or take.”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Jesus . . .”
“It’ll last us a little while if we’re careful. We’ve lasted longer on less. ”
He’s already shaking his head before I finish. “We need something bigger. We’re gonna have to get new IDs before we can make it out of the country. I’m sure we can only stay at the safe house for a few months.”
He starts pacing, his boots thudding against the thin carpet, while I just stand there awkwardly, still holding the cash.
“Cass . . . I know it’s not ideal, but we’ll figure something out. We always do. We don’t need IDs right away. We’ve got time to find something under the table.”
“You wanna sling hash for minimum wage? Or should I go beg some mechanic shop to let me change oil for pennies? By the time we earn anything real, we’ll have spent twice as much just staying alive.”
“Plenty of people survive like that. Not everything has to be?—”
“Has to be what? A scam? A hustle? Something illegal?” he finishes my thought, harshly. “No. We need cash—a nice nest egg to live off of for a few months so we can get passports and leave the safe house for something better once everything’s blown over.”
I swallow, throat dry. “And how exactly do you propose we get ‘real cash,’ huh? We’re in the middle of nowhere. We don’t have anything to pawn . . .”
Cassidy’s stare lands on me. “There’s a bank in town,” he says.
The words drop like stones in the silence. For a second, I don’t understand, or maybe I do, and I’m hoping I don’t. I stare up at him, searching his face. “What are you saying?”
He holds my gaze. In the dim motel lamplight, his eyes have an unsettling shine.
“I’m saying,” he replies slowly, “that we rob the bank.”
A pulse of cold shock goes through me, snapping me out of whatever exhaustion was fogging my brain. I let out a short laugh, thinking it must be a joke. But Cass doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even blink.
“You’re serious?” I whisper, my heart kicking into overdrive. He’s actually serious?
His lips twitch in what might be a grin, but on him it looks feral. “Dead serious.”
I jerk upright, shaking my head. “No. Absolutely not.” The words blurt out before I can temper them. I toss the crumpled bills on the bed. “That’s crazy. We are not—I mean, rob a bank? Are you out of your mind?”
Cassidy’s jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek jumping.
He takes a breath, forcing himself to speak calmly.
“Think about it, Bindi. It’s a tiny branch, I saw it on the way in.
This town’s barely a dot on the map. No security guards, not even a proper vault—just one of those old safes.
Probably one teller behind the counter, maybe a manager.
We walk in, wave a gun, walk out with a bag full of cash. Easy.”
I’m pacing now, a mirror of his earlier agitation, running my hands through my hair like I can claw the panic out of my skull. “Easy? There is no ‘easy,’ Cass! That’s not some purse snatching or gas station register, this is a bank. There are cameras, alarms . . .”
“It’s going to work.”
I try to twist away, but he grabs my arms, holding me still. I feel cornered, my pulse drumming in my throat.
“Cass, no . . . I know things are bad, but this—this is insane. We’ll get caught. Or shot. Or both. We’re not . . . we’re not bank robbers!” My voice cracks on the last words. I’m nearly hysterical.
He softens just a fraction, loosening his grip. His hands slide down my arms to my elbows, a gesture almost comforting, as if the context weren’t so terrifying.
“We won’t get caught,” he says, voice low and strangely soothing. “Listen to me. Small town like this? Cops are lazy. They won’t expect it. We go in quick, in and out in two minutes, tops, and grab what’s in the drawers. We’re gone before they even get their sirens on.”
I can smell the leather of his jacket, the hint of sweat from the long ride, and underneath it, the unique scent that is just him. Normally it calms me, but now it’s mixed with adrenaline and crazy ideas, and it’s not calming at all. I try to focus, to gather my thoughts.
“And what about the people in there? The teller, maybe customers? What if someone hits an alarm, or tries to be a hero? What if you . . . have to hurt someone, Cass? Could you?” I search his face.
“No one’s gonna get hurt. We’re not there to play cowboys and shoot up the place. We just show the gun, they hand over the cash. Banks have insurance for this kind of thing, you know. The money’s insured, nobody loses out except the corporate fat cats.”
He’s rationalizing—I can hear it, the way he frames it, like a justifiable crime. It’s how he copes when he crosses lines. “Cass, this is?—”
“I promise you . . . everything will be okay,” he interrupts quietly, releasing my arms. He takes a step back, running a hand over his face. He looks tired suddenly; tired and very young, despite the stubble and hard edges.
He sees my hesitation. “Think about it; we roll in, grab a few grand, and vanish. That’s enough to get new papers, maybe, and give us a cushion for supplies when we’re at the safe house. We could . . . we could start fresh somewhere in six months.”
A pang hits me at that. He’s invoking our little fantasy, the one we trade back and forth in dark moments to keep us going. It’s a pretty picture he’s painting, and the colors are all the more vivid against the drab reality of this motel room and the sting of desperation in my gut.
But it’s built on a violent, dangerous lie. A bank robbery is no harmless daydream. And Cassidy . . . Cassidy is not acting entirely like himself right now. Or maybe he is and I just haven’t seen this side of him fully unleashed.
I turn away and start pacing again, wrapping my arms around myself. My fingers dig into the leather of my own jacket as if it were a straitjacket holding me together. “This is nuts,” I mutter, half to myself. “This is completely nuts . . .”
“It’s not nuts. It’s survival. Desperate times, desperate measures, right?” He almost laughs at that last phrase, a brittle sound with no joy.
My mind is racing in circles. We can’t. We shouldn’t. It’s too extreme. We’ve bent laws before—shoplifted food, hustled pool for cash, maybe lifted a wallet or two. But armed robbery? That’s a whole new league of crime.
And yet . . . the more he talks, the more I feel something stirring beneath my fear.
A kind of morbid thrill at the audacity of it.
I hate that it’s there, but I can’t deny it.
My heart is thumping, and it’s not just anxiety—some part of me is actually imagining it: the rush of adrenaline, the power of walking out with a bag of money, the triumph of beating the system that’s kept us down.
It’s a dark, dangerous part of me that I usually keep locked up.
Cassidy seems to have found the key and is jiggling it, tempting that part of me to come out.
I stop and face him again, trying to steady my voice. “Even if I entertained this . . . idea,” I say carefully, “we don’t exactly have a plan. Or equipment. Or a way out. You can’t just stroll in, point a gun, and stroll out like it’s the movies, Cassidy. Real life isn’t that simple.”
Cassidy’s face breaks into a grin. He knows I haven’t said yes, but I haven’t kept saying no either. I’m asking for details now, and he takes that as a good sign. “We can make a plan,” he says quickly. “Tonight. Right now. We’ve cased places before, remember? We’re good at that.”
I arch a brow. “We’ve cased convenience stores to shoplift dinner, Cass. Not banks.”
He waves that off. “Same principle. Small place, low security. In and out.” He starts to tick off points on his fingers, warming to the subject.
“We’ll go see the bank after it closes—check the layout, cameras, how many exits.
We watch for a bit, maybe scope out if there’s a night guard or alarm company doing rounds.
But in a town like this, I bet they don’t even have that.
Tomorrow morning, we go in early, before it gets busy.
Maybe right when they open or just before lunch when it’s quiet. You’ll drive a getaway car?—”
I stare at him, amazed at how quickly he rattles this off. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”
He shrugs, a quick jerk of his shoulders. “Started thinking on the ride over here. Saw that bank and just . . . couldn’t let it go.” Cassidy steps closer, and gently brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “We can do this, Bindi, I promise. I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t believe that.”
I bite my lip hard enough to taste metal. He believes in his own invincibility—that everything will just magically work out for him. But he also believes in us, in our partnership, and that’s always been harder for me to refuse.