Chapter 10 #4
“First Commerce. The branch on…” I give her the full address.
She writes all of it with the neat, unhurried handwriting of someone who has been writing things down for decades and has never needed to rush.
“You said coercive,” she says, without looking up. “You think he had something over her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what?”
“A debt,” I reply. “She said old debt, new arrangement. That’s all I have.”
“Financial debt or the other kind?” she says.
“Unknown.”
“Mm.” She writes something. The orange cat, apparently having decided I’m not a threat or at least not an interesting one, repositions itself on the cushion and goes back to sleep. “You’ve been on the news recently.”
I go still.
She looks up. “I watch the regional news every evening. Have for forty years. It’s professionally useful.” She pauses. “You’ve changed your hair color and style. Quite flattering, really.” She writes something else. “Do you have any reason to believe this Daniel is tracking you?”
“I don’t think so. He got what he wanted.”
“You’d be surprised. He might be looking for you in order to tie up that loose thread.
Wouldn’t want you talking to law enforcement and putting holes in the framed part of the plan.
” She caps her pen. “Either way, you should look after yourself. He might be running a parallel search with better information.”
“He knows Amber,” I state sadly. This time, I do flinch. “Amber knows my patterns.”
“Then he knows how you move. And he’s adjusting accordingly.”
“Which means Sweetwater Valley isn’t as hidden as I thought.”
“No,” she says. “But you’ve lasted this long, which means either he’s not looking or he’s watching rather than acting.” She observes me over her spectacles. “The question is why he’d watch rather than act.”
I think about this.
“He needs me to keep running,” I say slowly. “If I’m caught, the case gets examined. If I’m caught and there’s a partner the bank is also looking for…”
“The frame collapses,” she finishes. “Or gets complicated enough to be a problem.” She nods. “He wants you running and invisible. Not caught. Not stationary.”
“Stationary is a problem for him,” I say.
“Stationary means you have time to build a defense,” she says. “Running means you’re surviving and nothing else.” She picks up her tea. “You’ve been stationary for a few days now.”
“I know.”
“He’s going to move soon. Or escalate the law enforcement pressure to force you into moving.”
“I hope he’s not.”
We sit with this for a moment. The lamp throws its rose light across the desk. The cat audibly breathes. My heart lodges itself in my throat.
“My fee,” Margaret Finch says, setting down her tea, “is forty dollars a day plus expenses. I don’t take cases I don’t intend to finish, and I don’t give progress reports until I have something worth reporting.
” She opens her desk drawer and produces a card, which she slides across the desk.
“My number. Call it anytime. I keep unusual hours.”
I pick up the card. It matches the sandwich board. Pale blue. Neat cursive lettering. Margaret Eleanor Finch. Discreet Inquiries & Curious Matters. And at the bottom, in smaller print: No mystery too old, no matter too small.
“There’s one more thing,” I say.
“There usually is,” she replies pleasantly.
“I need you to keep this absolutely private, especially from the Calloway pack.”
Something moves through her expression, not the analytical look, something more personal. The look that belongs to a person who has been in a place for thirty-nine years and takes its wellbeing seriously.
“I told you, my lips are sealed,” she says.
I nod. “How long do you think it will take?”
“For a name and background? Three days, possibly two. I have contacts in the city that owe me considerable favors.” She writes something in the journal.
“Two days,” I say. “If possible.”
“I’ll do my best.” She looks up. “In the meantime stay stationary. I know that goes against every instinct you have.” She holds my gaze with the clear, direct attention of someone who has been reading people for eighty years and is very good at it.
“You’ve found somewhere worth staying. That matters. Don’t let him take it from you.”
I look at her. “How do you know it’s worth staying?”
“You’re still here,” she says. Simply. “Four days, and you’re still here, and you came into my office asking how to fight rather than asking which road to take.” She picks up her shortbread. “That’s a person who’s found somewhere worth staying.”
I look at the pale blue card in my hand.
I look at the wall of green journals.
Thirty-nine years of other people’s secrets, kept.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Come back in two days. I’ll have something for you.” She opens her file again, the conversation complete. “Take a shortbread for the walk. You look like you haven’t eaten enough today.”
I take a shortbread. She’s not wrong.
I let myself out into the cobblestone morning and stand on the street. I put the card in my jacket pocket next to the tin trophy.
Two days.
I can hold the line for two days.