Chapter 2
Vero roused first to the sound, then to the smell of coffee brewing.
Her right hand smacked into one arm of her cousin’s sofa as she stretched.
Her left foot kicked the other arm, and her back and shoulder ached as she opened her eyes.
A quick glance at the clock on the microwave in the kitchen told her she’d slept only six hours, yet somehow she felt more rested than she could remember feeling in a long time.
Her bed in her sorority house had been comfy enough, but sleep hadn’t come easily these last few weeks since the treasury money had gone missing from the zippered bank deposit bag she’d kept in her bedroom.
She’d spent most of her days since looking over her shoulder while trying to ignore the nasty notes slipped under her bedroom door.
She peeked out from under the thick knitted blanket she’d found lying on the back of the couch last night, a pattern she’d recognized immediately as her Aunt Gloria’s handiwork.
The apartment wasn’t so bad for a bachelor pad, she thought to herself.
Sunlight poured through the uneven slats of a set of plastic blinds, revealing the dull gray carpeting and imperfections in the aged linoleum in the kitchen across the hall.
It was tidy, if she wasn’t being too critical.
The walls needed a few passes with a Magic Eraser and the baseboards could use some dusting, but the kitchen looked swept and there were a few vacuum tracks still visible in the carpet.
Ramón wasn’t a total heathen—Aunt Gloria never would have allowed it.
Still, there were no throw pillows, area rugs, or cute lamps to liven up the place.
Not a single potted plant or even a poster to speak of.
The walls were as bland and bare as she imagined they’d probably been the day he’d moved in three years ago.
A distinct aura of bruh hovered over everything, and she guessed whatever woman had been sleeping over lately hadn’t been a fixture here for very long.
The coffee pot gurgled and sputtered in the next room.
Vero threw off her blanket in search of caffeine, padding to the kitchen wearing the same sleep-rumpled T-shirt and yoga pants she’d shown up in last night.
A sticky note had been stuck to the counter: Gone to work. I’ll bring something home for dinner. See you at 6. Be ready to talk.
That was not a conversation she was looking forward to.
She opened the fridge, then the pantry, frowning at the breakfast options. Judging by the contents of her cousin’s cabinets, he’d been spending far more time at work than at home.
She poured a mug of coffee for herself and carried it to the small dinette by the window.
The file Ramón had brought home from the garage lay in the middle of the table, probably forgotten in his rush to get to work.
She opened it, not bothering to feel guilty for nosing around in his business.
After all, he would be all up in hers later on.
She shuffled through a stack of his receipts, skimming his Schedule Cs and profit and loss forms as she sipped.
Her nails mindlessly tapped the tabletop, running over the keys of an imaginary calculator as she did a little math in her head.
No wonder Ramón had been stressed. Her cousin was good at a lot of things, but accounting clearly wasn’t one of them.
She searched his kitchen drawers for a pen and opened the calculator on her phone, sorting through his expenses and deposits one by one, losing herself in the tidy, neatly compartmentalized boxes—in the assurance of knowing exactly what numbers to put where.
By the time she finally looked up at the clock, three hours had passed, her cousin’s tax forms were done, and a dribble of tepid coffee was all that remained in the pot.
Vero’s stomach grumbled. She opened her backpack, looking for her wallet, careful of the broken glass that had collected at the bottom after she’d tossed her bag through Ramón’s window last night. She counted her cash—$325 wasn’t much, but it was enough for breakfast and a fresh start.
She showered and changed, smoothing the wrinkles from a pair of slacks and a blouse she’d fished from a bag in the back seat of her car.
Then she brushed her hair back into a sleek dark ponytail, meticulously applied a conservative shade of lipstick, and dusted on some neutral eyeshadow.
She frowned down at the chipped purple polish on her toenails, which were long overdue for a pedicure.
No matter. She would have plenty of time (and money) for that after she found a job.
She slipped her feet into a pair of sensible closed-toe flats and grabbed her keys. Veronica Ramirez may have cashed out her bank account and run from the law, but Vero Ruiz was about to make a deposit on a brand-new life.
Vero waited for the manager inside the small local bank with the NOW HIRING sign in the front window.
This was it, the window of opportunity she’d been looking for—a career in her chosen field.
A foot in the door. She may not have a degree, but she was built for this.
She could start small as a teller, work her way up the ladder.
Become a wealth advisor or a portfolio manager.
She could already see the title on her nameplate: VERO RUIZ—INVESTMENT BANKER.
With a belly full of bagels and a shiny new phony driver’s license in her wallet, she filled out the forms on her clipboard.
Fortunately for Vero, Dimitri Papadopoulis, her former high school classmate, was still selling fake IDs out of his mother’s basement, and for an extra fifty bucks, he had agreed to meet her on the Virginia side of the Potomac River bridge to deliver his overpriced masterpiece.
It probably wasn’t official enough to get Vero out of a speeding ticket, but hopefully it was convincing enough to open a checking account and get her a job.
She was keeping her identity change simple, dropping her paternal last name and replacing it with her mother’s.
Since both of her surnames were printed on her actual birth certificate and social security card, the condensed version on her shiny new license shouldn’t raise many eyebrows.
Her friends from Maryland knew her as Veronica Ramirez, so she would simply disappear in Virginia as Vero Ruiz, a diminutive name only her family had ever used.
Hopefully, no one would come looking for her here.
She had proof of residence—the electric bill she’d taken from her cousin’s apartment that morning, then doctored at the office supply store and photocopied to reflect her new name.
It wasn’t a lie… she really did plan to live there for a while, just until she could find her own place.
Meanwhile, if anyone did come looking for her, living under Ramón’s address would make her harder to find.
So would the set of Virginia license tags she’d swiped from a totaled car in her cousin’s salvage yard—a white Honda Civic, similar to her own, that she hoped no one would ever come looking for.
She scrolled through her phone as she waited for the manager, only half listening to the middle-aged couple talking with an account rep in the open cubicle beside her.
“I think Darren’s right,” the woman said. “I’m self-employed, Greg. At some point, we have to start planning for our retirement.”
“The Deluxe Savings plan is an excellent choice,” the account rep agreed.
Terrible choice, Vero thought to herself as she scrolled.
“That savings account you’re recommending pays, what… less than a percent?”
You tell him, Greg. That savings plan is bullshit.
“Maybe we should be investing that money instead, Linda. Marty and Rebecca made a killing in tech stocks.”
“That was ten years ago, Greg. I’m fifty-two. We don’t have time for high-risk investments.”
That’s very sensible, Linda. A balanced portfolio is definitely the way to go.
The customer service rep cleared his throat. “Based on what I’m hearing, the Deluxe Savings plan is the best solution for—”
Is he serious? Who gave this guy a job? Did he even pass basic finance? He’s nothing more than a glorified bank teller.
“Excuse me. I don’t mean to butt in,” Vero said, poking her head inside the cubicle.
The couple glanced up with bemused expressions.
The customer service rep, who might have been cute if he’d never opened his mouth, seemed to have lost his thoughts somewhere in the vicinity of Vero’s chest. If he searched any harder for them, maybe he’d find his missing brain cells, too.
“That Deluxe Savings plan you’re pitching wouldn’t save them enough to live on ramen noodles in a trailer park in Manassas.
They’ll be working until they’re a hundred and twelve.
And I’m guessing Greg and Linda here would much prefer caviar and champagne in the BVIs before they turn sixty. Am I right?”
Greg nodded vigorously. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“Have you considered opening a SEP IRA?” Vero suggested to Linda. “It would shield more of your income from the IRS while building your assets for retirement.”
The couple blinked at her, then up at the wide-eyed bank representative.
Darren blanched as he straightened his tie.
Someone called Vero’s name from the next cubicle.
“Good luck,” she told the couple, side-eying their representative as she left.
She might be a college dropout, but she was sure she could give better banking advice than this guy.
Vero entered the small corner office with glass walls overlooking the bank floor. The nameplate on the desk said JAY SINGH . A young man in a suit greeted her, holding back his tie as he reached over his desk to shake her hand. “Have a seat, Miss…?”
“Ruiz,” Vero supplied as she passed him her clipboard and documents.
“And what brings you in today?”
An arrest warrant in Maryland was probably not the answer this man was looking for. “I’m applying for a job.”
“Great, I was beginning to worry we wouldn’t find someone.” Mr. Singh’s eyes made a quick pass over her as he skimmed her application.
“I’ve taken a lot of higher-level money and banking classes, I’m excellent with numbers and investment strategies, and I’m really great with people—”
“Are you good with a mop?”
“Excuse me?” She shook her head, assuming she must have misheard.
“I’m looking for a janitor.” At her stupefied look, he clarified. “You know, dusting, restocking restrooms, vacuuming after hours, that sort of thing…”
“But I’m…” But she was what ? She had been on track to graduate cum laude from the University of Maryland School of Business.
She had been poised to wear honors tassels at graduation in May.
She had been ready to conquer the world.
But who was she now? She bit her tongue.
“I’ll think about it,” she said as she got up to leave his office.
A security guard in a uniform stepped in her path.
She froze, staring at the badge pinned to the front of his shirt.
Oh god. Was this it? How had the cops tracked her here so fast?
Was it facial recognition? An E-ZPass camera?
Had someone spotted her on the closed-circuit TVs when she’d snuck into Costco that morning for free breakfast samples?
(Those tiny bagel dogs were totally worth it.)
Vero forced herself to smile at the security guard, nearly crumbling with relief when he stepped aside to let her pass.
She stood outside the manager’s door, contemplating her options.
No one knew who she was… yet. And she had accomplished part of what she’d come for; she had a bank account, now all she needed was a job.
It didn’t have to be this one. She could go someplace else.
A restaurant. A movie theater. A retail store.
She didn’t want to work in a bank if the only way she’d see the inside of it was with a rag and a bottle of Windex.
Just because she’d had to start her life over didn’t mean she had to forget who she was.
She was a numbers goddess, a financial wizard, a future star accountant. She was…
Vero listened, leaning closer to the door as she caught bits and pieces of Mr. Singh’s conversation with the bank’s security guard.
“Whoever is taking the money is being careful not to take too much. A few thousand per week at the most. At first, I was convinced we had miscounted somewhere, but now I’m certain. There’s definitely a pattern. Were you able to find anything in the security recordings?”
“Nothing,” the security officer said. “It’s not being taken from the vault.”
“Then someone must be skimming from their drawer. Go back through last week’s recordings.
Pay closer attention to the cameras stationed behind the tellers.
Look for anything suspicious. Let me know what you find.
Until we know our thief’s identity, let’s keep this between us. I don’t want word of this getting out.”
Vero pressed back against the wall as the security guard came out of Mr. Singh’s office, a wake of Old Spice trailing behind him.
Vero looked across the room through the glass barrier at the row of bank tellers—at the fresh-faced, spray-tanned frat boy with the pristine gelled hair and plastic smile, the anxious thirty-something woman who was incessantly wringing her hands, the bespectacled balding man with a ketchup stain he kept trying to hide under his tie…
One of them was a thief, a criminal who didn’t deserve to work here.
And once Mr. Singh figured out which of them it was, he’d probably fire them.
Vero stared down at her empty application as the promise of a new window began to open. The security guard said he didn’t have any leads, but it might be easier to go looking for dirt with a broom instead of a camera.
Vero uncapped her pen and began frantically filling out her application.
She was going to find the bank’s missing money and prove she was as qualified as any of them.
She couldn’t return to Maryland to unravel the mystery of who had stolen a mountain of cash from her sorority’s treasury and pinned the theft on her, but this was a problem she could solve.
She would unmask the bank’s thief and march the evidence right into Mr. Singh’s office.
And when she did, she’d be first in line for the criminal’s job.