CHAPTER 32
The sun beats down from above. The heat is stifling, sweat prickling along my spine and beading along my hairline. My palm, cupped against Jake’s, is damp.
Despite that, I feel chilled as we trek the half mile from where we decided to park to the bank. And though we talked our game plan over for hours this morning, the band tightening around my chest with each step gives me the sense of being unprepared.
As we step inside, it only gets worse. I shiver against the frigid air conditioning, goosebumps racing across my body. The bare skin of my shoulders, revealed by the sundress Jake bought for me, feels like it’s shrinking against my bones.
I want to turn around and retreat. Instead, I fix a smile on my face and remind myself to keep my head held high as we get in line.
Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, threatening to trigger a headache.
My left eye twitches, reminding me to pull my hair forward, over my bruised temple.
Even with the wound covered, I still look rough.
Though the concealer Jake bought helped, it was unable to perform the miracle of making me look like a human in full health.
Maybe that’s why I can’t help feeling like this is a long shot. That there’s no way, despite the perfect replica of a Florida state driver’s license with my picture next to the name of the account holder, that this is going to work.
Yet as we step up to the counter and a young woman in her twenties with spiky hair asks how she can help us, my voice is clear and confident, as I reply, “Yes, I’d like to close out my account please.”
“Certainly.”
As she types on her keyboard, my gaze drifts to the other clerk trapped behind the Plexiglass with her.
I watch the man unwrap a lollipop from the small bowl between them and shove it into his cheek before he pulls out his phone.
A tattoo is just visible on his neck, above the collar of his short-sleeved button-up shirt.
“And do you have your debit card with you, ma’am?” the teller assisting me asks.
“Shoot. I knew I forgot something,” I say.
Jake, per our prearranged strategy, says, “Cadence, I reminded you before we left. I’m sorry, ma’am. She’d forget her head if it wasn’t attached.”
“I know my account number, if that helps,” I offer, along with an apologetic smile.
“Do you have your ID on you?”
“I do.”
I pull it out of my dress pocket and slide it to her.
“Since you don’t have your debit card with you, I’ll need you to enter your Social Security number for me.”
I tap the number I memorized this morning into the keypad.
“Thank you, Ms. Glover.”
Her coworker’s head snaps in my direction.
“And how would you like the funds?”
“A cashier’s check, please,” I say, pretending I didn’t notice the way I gained the tattooed man’s attention the instant she said the name Glover, his gaze latching onto me with undisguised suspicion.
He gives me a long, hard stare, his eyes narrowing before he walks to the end of the teller station.
His focus stays on me as he lifts his cell to his ear.
My heart races, galloping like a runaway horse as I realize what’s happening.
Instinctively, I reach for Jake’s hand but stop myself before I make contact.
I peek at him from the corners of my eyes. He appears not to have noticed the man’s strange behavior. The man who’s still staring, his scrutiny needling its way beneath my skin. It would be better if it stayed that way.
“And who would you like that made out to?” our clerk asks.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Cash, please.”
She nods and continues typing. It won’t be long now. Just a few more minutes and Jake and I can get out of here. Feeling emboldened, I look right at the man and smile. He doesn’t return it. “Also, would it be possible for me to get a closing statement?”
“Of course. I’ll print off a copy of all recent activity that’s occurred since your account last totaled.”
“Thank you. How long will I continue to have access to my statements online?”
“I’m afraid you won’t once the account closes.”
“Oh.” I act like it’s a surprise.
“Will that be an issue? I can see if I can print off your last few statements for you, if that will help.”
Resisting the urge to ask how long it will take, I say, “That would be great.”
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I pretend that nothing is wrong because nothing is—yet.
Jake’s hand touches against the damp fabric at the small of my back. Glancing at him, I find he’s noticed that I’ve drawn the tattooed man’s attention. But he doesn’t know why. And I don’t want the man looking at Jake too closely.
I squeeze between Jake and the counter, drawing his focus and keeping it on me until his back is angled to the guy.
Then I lean against him, tucking myself under his arm like I’m using him as a shield, the way you might when a creepy stranger is making you uncomfortable by looking at you a little too intensely.
“Here you go, ma’am. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
The teller tucks the cashier’s check into an envelope and passes it, along with a stack of printouts, across the counter.
“No, thank you.”
“Then I hope you have a great rest of your day.”
“Thanks. You too.”
Grabbing Jake’s hand, I lead him toward the exit, forcing myself to keep my pace slow and measured.
Doing my best to keep his face angled away from the tattooed man.
I glance over my shoulder to find him off the phone but still watching me.
Our eyes meet as he says something to his coworker, then disappears from view.
A moment later, the door to the back opens. He’s following us. Or, at least, he’s going to try. As soon as we’ve left the building, I quicken my steps, tugging Jake in the direction opposite the one we parked.
“Where are we going?”
“Detour,” I say, pulling him into a shop just as the man emerges from the bank. He jogs around the side, toward the parking lot. We need to kill some time. It won’t take him long to figure out his mistake, and I don’t want to be on the street when he does—we’ll be too easy to spot.
“How many?” a voice from behind me asks.
I jump. Turn to find a hostess watching us expectantly. Shoot a questioning look at Jake, who shrugs.
“Two.”
She leads us to a nearby table, much too close to the glass windows, where we could easily be spotted from outside.
“Actually, do you have anything maybe a little more… private?” I ask.
“We’re on our honeymoon,” Jake adds.
The annoyed expression on her face eases as she looks between us.
“Sure.”
A minute later, we’re tucked into a booth at the very back of the restaurant. As soon as she’s gone, he asks, “Now, do you want to tell me what this is really all about?”
I don’t. So I answer his question with one of my own. “Do you want to wait until we get back to the car to look?”
Instantly, the menu in his hand is forgotten about. “No. How much is it?”
I slide the envelope across the table to him. My stomach clenches at his expression as he looks at the cashier’s check inside.
“What?”
A crease forms between his brows. His head shakes slowly from side to side. Slowly, he withdraws the slip of paper and lays it on the table, turning it so I can see. It’s for a hundred and forty-nine dollars and seventeen cents.
It could be that Janine’s out of money. Or that murder for hire is a lot cheaper than you’d expect. But I suspect the truth is that this is just the tip of the iceberg. And like the Titanic, sometimes it’s what you can’t see that sinks you.