Chapter 30 Taylor
Taylor
Two days after her interview, the job offer comes in the way one might expect from a secret society: handwritten, enclosed in a fancy navy-blue lined envelope, and hand delivered—slipped under her door sometime during the night.
Taylor Adams, we are pleased to offer you the position. Should you choose to accept, report Monday morning at nine o’clock. Attire is business casual.
The offer is vague, no mention of salary or benefits.
Yet it is a link—as clear as day—to Vivian and to Taylor’s mother.
The ivory paper seems to be the same stationery as the note Taylor uncovered in Vivian’s apartment.
And it’s similarly embossed with the hat symbol, matching her mom’s last letter, which Taylor’s dad finally got around to mailing to her—and which she’s hung up on her fridge.
Taylor traces the imprint of the top hat, feeling a spark of excitement.
“Congrats,” Sam says, when she shows him the offer. He is not a morning person, so she waited to knock on his door until she heard the shower water run through the pipes between their walls and then turn off.
“How does the Knox know where you live?” He runs a hand through his hair, which is one shade lighter brown than his goatee. He’s wearing his favorite BronCore Fitness yellow T-shirt.
“Uh, I don’t know,” she admits. It’s a good point; it’s not like she handed the Knox her CV. “Maybe Anna?”
“So, they know where you live and somehow got access into the building?”
“Maybe Anna,” Taylor repeats, feeling a little foolish for not having considered this. “I’ll ask her.” But she knows she’ll do no such thing.
Should you choose to accept. She accepted the moment she stepped foot into the Knox, maybe even before.
“How much do you know about this place?” Sam asks.
She shrugs. “Enough, I think.”
“Do you, though?”
“Why? What are you getting it?”
“I know you’re not from here, but this place has a history, Taylor.”
She rolls her eyes. “Every place has a history.”
“Not like this. You know the famous art heist at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum? Where the thieves dressed up as security guards?”
She does, as a matter of fact. She’s visited the museum and seen the thirteen hauntingly empty frames where the paintings used to hang. In fact, she just caught a great indie film about the robbery: Any Day Now.
“You mean, the famously unsolved heist? Yes.” Taylor knows what Sam’s hinting at but isn’t in the mood to be obliging; not when he was immediately trying to tarnish her excitement about her new job, her new start.
Sam grows more animated as he continues. “And they say that after Whitey Bulger went on the lam he used to stay at the Knox, whenever he rolled into town. And that the Boston cops just looked the other way, with their pockets greased. Did you know that?”
She shakes her head. If Sam is trying to scare her off, he’s doing the exact opposite. This place is sounding more and more intriguing.
“And then there’s the rumor about how Ted Kennedy was a member, so they covered up the Chappaquiddick incident.” He pauses and then adds, “Oh—and the Knox siphoned off millions from ‘the Big Dig’ through various shell companies and consulting fees. Or so they say.”
“Are you done?” she asks.
“Yeah—for now. These are rumors, of course, but where there’s smoke there’s fire. It’s a powerful place, Taylor.”
“That doesn’t change anything. And like you said, they’re just rumors.”
He studies her, squinting as if the sun is shining into his eyes. “Did you break the news to your dad yet?”
“No…. he’s busy right now with the restaurant.”
Her dad briefly reopens for spring break, and again in April for the Mid-Atlantic Regional Surfing Championship, viewing the crowds as a test drive for the upcoming summer onslaught.
Because starting in July, wealth will arrive to the Outer Banks like its own season: hordes of SUVs with attached roof boxes clogging N.
Croatan Highway, the only road that runs to the beach towns.
The houses on stilts will sag a little heavier as the masses descend on them like a flock of seagulls.
But this is not the real reason she hasn’t talked to her dad. She’s never been able to lie to him, and she doesn’t want him asking her questions she has to answer. Like: Why waitressing? What is this place? Thankfully he doesn’t live in Boston, so isn’t remotely aware of the Knox’s shadowy ties.
Then Sam says quietly, “And you’re sure this is a good idea? Not because of what I just told you, but because of…you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw your fridge. Your mom’s letter.”
Taylor takes a step back. “You read it?”
“I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I saw the letter on there, and I just thought it was something you were proud of, like you know, how people hang school photos on their fridge? I wouldn’t have read it if I realized it was from your mom. But then I saw the Knox symbol, and—”
“Wait, you know what the symbol for the Knox is?”
“Yeah.” Sam shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
“Why? How?”
“I dunno. I think everyone knows. I mean, people always dress up as the Knox on Halloween, wearing that top hat and a black cape.”
Taylor snorts humorlessly to herself. All along, she could have just asked Sam about the symbol.
But then she likely would’ve had to tell him about Vivian.
Right now, Sam just thinks she’s a homesick nurse who couldn’t cut it at Mass General.
Not entirely untrue, but that explanation contains only slivers of the truth.
“What does your mom have to do with the Knox, anyway? You told me she came to Boston to model before…um, the basement house fire.”
Taylor leans against the doorframe, avoiding his eye. “Yeah, she did.”
“So, what does that have to do with the Knox?”
Taylor folds the offer of employment over and over, making it smaller. If only problems and worries were like that, able to be lessened and shrunk at will.
“I don’t know,” she answers honestly.