The secret account.
The warning.
It all seemed connected.
“Can I freeze the account?”
“If you’re confirmed as the primary owner, yes.”
“Then freeze it.”
“We should verify—”
“Freeze it.”
Celia left and returned with the branch manager and several forms.
I signed where they told me.
They copied my identification.
Then they asked security questions.
One stopped me.
“What was your mother’s middle name?”
“Elaine.”
The manager checked the screen.
“Correct.”
Another question followed.
“Your first employer?”
“Hartley’s Market.”
Another match.
Then he asked:
“Do you recognize the number 314?”
My mouth dried instantly.
“Why?”
“It’s listed as an archival verification phrase.”
I thought about the matchbox in my pocket.
“Yes.”
“What does it refer to?”
For some reason, the answer came out before I had time to think.
“Lantern.”
Both bank employees visibly relaxed.
Verification completed.
I froze.
I had known the answer.
Not consciously.
Not logically.
But somewhere inside me, I had known it.
The branch manager printed a limited transaction record.
Daniel had made authorized withdrawals.
But another set of initials appeared too.
M.E.
Mara Ellis.
I nearly ripped the page.
“Who is M.E.?”
He shook his head.
“I can’t confirm third-party identities from archival material without further legal authorization.”
I did not need him to.
Mara.
The woman across the street.
Three weeks earlier:
$240,000.
Authorization: D.M.
Processing agent: M.E.
My hands shook all the way home.
Mara’s vehicle was parked in her driveway.
For almost ten minutes, I sat inside my car staring at her house.
Then I got out and crossed the street.
I rang her doorbell.
Mara opened the door wearing jeans and a gray sweater.
Her hair was tied back.
She wore no makeup.
She looked exhausted.
“Jen.”
I held up the bank records.
“What did you do with two hundred and forty thousand dollars?”
Her face went white.
She stepped back.
“Where did you get that?”
“Wrong answer.”
“Jen, listen—”
“Did you sleep with my husband?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
That made me furious.
How dare she cry?
“I asked you something.”
“Yesterday was the first time he kissed me.”
I stared at her.
“He kissed you?”
“Yes.”
“You think that makes this better?”
“No.”
“How long have you wanted him to?”
Mara closed her eyes.
That was enough.
I gave a bitter laugh.
“Unbelievable.”
“Jen, the money has nothing to do with the kiss.”
“Then tell me what it has to do with.”
“I can’t.”
Those words hit me harder because Daniel had said almost the same thing.
“You can’t.”
“Not without him.”
“It’s my money!”
Mara flinched.
“That’s what you think.”
My entire body went cold.
“What did you just say?”
Her face changed instantly.
She wished she could take the sentence back.
“What do you mean that’s what I think?”
“Please call Daniel.”
“No.”
“Then call an attorney.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
She looked relieved.
That only made me angrier.
“What is 314?”
Shock replaced everything on her face.
“Where did you hear that?”
I took the matchbox from my pocket.
Mara stared at it as though I had produced something dangerous.
“Oh my God.”
“Tell me.”
“You still have that.”
“Apparently.”
Her hand covered her mouth.
“Mara.”
She finally looked directly at me.
And for the first time since everything began, I saw an emotion in her face that frightened me more than guilt.
Pity.
“You really don’t remember,” she whispered.
I stepped toward her.
“Remember what?”
She shook her head.
“Go home.”
“What?”
“Go home, Jen.
Lock the door.
Call Daniel.”
“Stop telling me to call my husband.”
She caught my wrist.
“Then call someone you trust.
Anyone.
And don’t open that matchbox again unless another person is with you.”
I jerked free.
“There are four matches inside.”
“No.”
Mara stared at the box.
“There weren’t supposed to be.”
My chest tightened.
“What was supposed to be inside?”
She whispered:
“A key.”
I found that key later that afternoon.
It wasn’t sitting openly inside the matchbox.
It had been hidden underneath the small cardboard tray holding the four matches.
The brass key was tiny, barely longer than my thumbnail.
Stamped into the metal was the same number.
For almost an hour, I sat at the kitchen table staring at it.
Then I called Daniel.
He answered so quickly the first ring barely finished.
“Jen?”
“I found the key.”
Silence.
“Daniel?”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Don’t go anywhere.”
“I’m finished taking orders from you.”
“I’m not ordering you.
I’m asking you to wait until I get there.”
“Why?”
“Because I should have told you years ago.”
My throat tightened.
“Told me what?”
Another pause.
“Everything.”
Daniel arrived twenty-seven minutes later.
I know because I watched the clock the entire time.
