I nod, suppressing a shiver.
I miss Donny. Sleeping without him in the hotel bed the last two nights seemed all wrong. We never made it to the breakfast he had planned, and each time I tried to tell him about Pat Lamone, he shushed me. Said he wanted just me until he had to leave for Denver. So after our shower, we headed back to bed and held each other. He couldn’t get a flight for Sunday, so a few hours later, I drove him to the airport, and Rory and I made it through the rest of the weekend in a tidal wave of anxiety.
“Nervous?” Rory asks.
I nod again. The effort required to eke out a yes seems too great.
“What do we do if it’s not there?”
“It has to be there, Ror. It has to. You had to show your ID to get near the box.”
“Yeah, but so what?”
For the third time, I nod. I know exactly what she’s thinking, because it’s the same thing I’m thinking. Anyone with enough money—for example, the Steels—could get into that box. Flash enough green, and you can get anything.
Time moves slowly. My skin feels clammy, and my throat has a lump forming in it that’s the size of Kansas. I take my phone out of my purse, fiddle with it, and then shove it back in. I don’t care about emails right now. I don’t care about anything.
I’m missing a day of work, but since Donny is my boss and he knows where I am, I guess that doesn’t matter.
Except that it matters to me.
All of this matters to me.
Donny was weird when he left Saturday afternoon. We hardly talked. He gave me a searing kiss before he left, and he told me he loved me.
But his eyes—those beautiful golden-green eyes… They still looked sad. They still looked sunken. They still looked…all wrong.
Despite our amazing time in bed, things aren’t right between us.
I feel it.
And so does he.
What will become of us?
Too much to think about. Too damned much! Concentrate on one thing, Callie. We’re here. At the bank. The locksmith will be here soon, and we’ll find out if the stuff is still in the box.
I clasp my hands in front of me. God, they’re sweaty. Clammy and disgusting.
Rory sits next to me, wringing her hands as well. Her lips tremble.
I want to ask if she’s okay. I want to be here for my sister. But my larynx seems to have stopped working.
A few more minutes pass, and then—
“Ms. Pike?” the same manager asks.
Rory clears her throat. “Yes?”
“It will be a few more minutes. I’m so sorry. We just got word from the locksmith that she’s running a little bit late on her previous job.”
I stand then, my hands curled into fists. “Her previous job? It’s nine o’clock in the morning.”
“I’m sorry, but sometimes locksmiths have emergencies.”
“This is an emergency!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is not an emergency. A young woman inadvertently trapped her baby in a locked car. That’s an emergency.”
“That’s a neglectful mother,” Rory says calmly.
My sister’s right. She’ll make the most amazing mother. I’d like to have children too someday. Beautiful little people with blond hair and amazing hazel eyes.
But I can’t think about that now.
“The locksmith will be here as soon as she can,” Mr. Keats says. “We’re all very sorry. Would you like to reschedule?”
“No, I would not like to reschedule,” Rory says. “We don’t live here. We live in Snow Creek.”
“Then why do you have a safe-deposit box here?”
Rory does not answer. She simply glares.
My sister is getting angry. Really angry. Rory is a kind and gentle soul, an artist and a musician, but even she can get pushed too far.
She settles down a bit, though. “I apologize,” she says to Mr. Keats. “I’m sure it was a terrible thing for that mother to lock her baby in the car. Accidents happen. I shouldn’t have said she was neglectful. I don’t have all the facts.”
“I understand, Ms. Pike,” Keats says. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do while we wait.”
Rory nods as Mr. Keats returns to his cubicle.
Then we wait.
And we wait.
If only Donny were here. Why was he acting so strange?
How will we get through this?
The door of the bank opens then, and a woman wearing jeans and a red T-shirt walks through. The shirt reads Karen’s Locks.
Rory and I abruptly stand.
“You’re the locksmith?” Rory asks.
“Yes, I am. I’m here to see Michael Keats.”
Mr. Keats approaches us quickly. “Karen Bates?”
“Yes, I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Wait a minute,” Rory says. “Is the baby okay? The one who was locked in the car?”
Karen smiles. “She’s fine. She slept through the whole thing. The poor mother cried like a baby, but the little one was just fine.”
Rory lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank goodness.”
Yes, my sister will be a hell of a mother. I hope she gets that chance.