“Safe-deposit box, maybe?” he asked, then chuckled.
“What?” I asked.
“Amelia. Why use magic when you can just look?”
“Aw,” I said, sympathizing. “I have a feeling we’re going to need some magic before we get to the end of this.”
Cormac didn’t seem happy about that. He tapped on his phone, doing a web search, it looked like. “Huh. It’s in Golden.”
“So it is a real place.”
“Guess so. Have to wait until morning to check it out.”
“Should I meet you there or do you want to pick me up?”
“Kitty—”
“Come on, please let me tag along. You can’t open a secret safe-deposit box without me.”
“Okay. Fine. I’ll pick you up.”
“Yes!” I did a tiny fist pump.
“This is weird. You’re not supposed to enjoy this.”
“You want to get there right when the place opens, or what?”
At home that night, I tried to explain all this to Ben. He was skeptical. “Should I be worried about him?”
“Probably, but at least if I’m with him I can watch out for him,” I answered.
He gave me a look.
“It’ll be fine,” I insisted. “It’s just . . . a puzzle.”
“I’m in court all day or I’d go with you.”
“I’ll text you. Don’t worry.”
“I promise not to worry if you promise not to get into trouble.”
I furrowed my brow, because I didn’t think either of us could make good on those promises.
Foothills Savings and Loan was a small building with an aging parking lot set back from a busy street, away from the highway and box stores on the newer side of town. It must have been built in the seventies, with that particular style of stucco exterior and wood shakes over the eaves of a flat roof. The name of the bank was painted on a nondescript sign hanging by the door. No other cars were in the lot.
; We stood by the Jeep and stared at the building for a moment. “This looks like it should be a dentist’s office,” I said.
“Let’s get this over with.” He walked to the door, held it open for me, and we stepped in.
The interior matched the exterior, with burnt umber carpet and brown wood paneling. A Muzak version of “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” played on a staticky P.A. I felt like I’d stepped through a time warp.
“Is this a real bank?” I murmured. “This can’t be a real bank.” This was the set of a Tarantino film, surely.
The woman at one of two teller counters seemed modern and real enough, dressed in a contemporary blouse and slacks, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing just a bit of makeup. She looked to be in her thirties.
“Hi,” she said, smiling widely. “Can I help you?”