Page 99 of Devil

His office is the first place I check, the logical place, and I go through his desk first. It’s a quick process, since it’s so orderly, aside from the drawer full of Lego bricks. I start on the shelves on the back wall, flipping open the binders and checking the cabinets underneath.

Nothing. Everything is as it should be. Everything is what it looks like. Floor plans and plat maps and survey reports. I find a basket of board books and another basket of Barbies and superhero toys for the nieces and nephews.

The living room is the same, and I even take a moment to flip through every binder on the shelf where he’s kept his tabletop campaign books and find nothing close to paperwork for a trust. I spin around slowly, taking in the whole first floor and trying to think like Bell.

The rational Bell—organized, friendly, maybe-one-day-mayor Bell—that’s the Bell the world sees, the Bell who designs buildings and tells his nieces and nephews about cloud kittens.

The Bell who offered me hundreds of thousands of dollars to be his concubine, however—that man’s mind works differently. There wouldn’t be any neat and tidy filing for him. He’d keep things close and safe in the same way a dragon would, tucking them charily away in the dark.

I go upstairs.

I check the guest room briefly. I’m not wildly shocked I don’t find anything, but he does enjoy the closet he’s stocked with things for me so much thatmaybehe would have hidden something important in here. He likes watching me dress in the closet; he likes selecting lingerie from the shallow drawers like someone browsing their wine cellar; he likes taking me in front of the mirror mounted on the far wall or using my mouth while I kneel in front of it. It seems like the kind of spot my dragon would keep his treasures, but there’s nothing.

I check our room last, his closet, his dresser. The end table. Under the bed.

I don’t know what possesses me—just an inkling of an impulse—but while I’m on my knees looking under the bed, I use my phone as a flashlight and sweep the beam underneath. Right away, I see the slim metal box attached to the bottom of the bed frame so it hangs underneath where he sleeps. Exactly like a dragon then, curled atop his hoard.

It’s mounted on a track, so I can slide it free. It’s not heavy, but it’s not light either, and I suspect it’s fireproof. But it’s not a miniature safe or anything—the lock is a simple key lock. I spend a few more minutes hunting for the key and discover nothing.

I have to know.

It’s become my only mission, my only thought, like if I can know if he did this one thing, it’ll put to rest everything else—Busy’s doubts and Kaitlyn’s fake concern and my own quiet terror that everything about Bell and me is destined to end in the kind of waste that only lions and Liliths can survive in.

I take the box downstairs to the studio and find the metal picks I use for detail work. It doesn’t take much to spring the lock—it’s a simple one, as far as locks go—but I wouldn’t have hesitated to reach for an awl or chisel if that was what it took because I have to know. I just have to.

At my workbench, I open the box all the way and pull out a stack of papers, decently thick.

On the top is a stapled sheaf:The Mary Merle Cooper Trust. Bell is listed as a cotrustee. My signature is in all the places it should be, but I never signed this. I’ve never even considered making a trust. I’m not even sure what one is. My experience with trusts has more to do with colleges and places that give grants—wealth management wasn’t really a big issue in the Cooper family.

But that is certainly my signature. My artist’s signature as Birdie Cooper, the one I scrawl at the side of my sketches if I plan on keeping them, the one I had made into a metal brand years ago for the bottom of my statues. TheBis slanted enough toward the back that you could almost think of it as anM, and the rest is a squiggle until you get to theCforCooper. If you didn’t know, you’d think everything was signed as Mary Cooper. You’d think it was signedbyMary Cooper.

Ryan Bell, clever Bell, best in his class.

The forgery quickly becomes the least of my concerns, however, because the trust has more than the farm listed as assets. There’s also the pickup truck and a brokerage account I’ve never heard of.

Underneath the paperwork for the trust is a funding statement for the brokerage account, and it’s even more money than he promised for Busy. Six figures, right in the middle of the range. That amount of money, with my name on it… I’m not even sure how to process this.

It’s the kind of money where I’d never have to work at the gas station again.

There’s another trust below that,The Mary Geraldine Cooper SNT, with a brokerage account and bank account listed as the assets, and then the funding statement underneath that, with only a little more than I’d calculated mentally back when Bell first offered his deal in June. Both brokerage accounts were opened the same day I left the Lucifer in front of city hall, but this amount of money—it wasn’t money from nowhere. He had it ready to move, like this had always been the plan.

Maybe it had been. Perhaps it occurred to him a long time ago that taking care of Busy would be a sufficient inducement. But then why make the additional trust forme? Why forge my signature?

Underneath all that is a small NFC key, which I set aside, and then finally a document-size envelope from a law firm. Inside is a cover letter, a form, and another copy of that form. Both are already signed by Bell. The other signature field is for me, but he hasn’t forged my signature there. I catch the wordsnondisclosure agreement, take a breath, and then read the cover letter, which has a date from last month.

Mr. Bell,

As per our phone call today, I’ve prepared a nondisclosure agreement for you and Mary M. Cooper.

This agreement should cover the most essential reputational risks, and it’s my professional opinion that having an agreement like this in place is imperative for anyone who might hold office one day—particularly at the close of a relationship. While one is not dependent on the other, typically a generous trust like the one you’ve put into place for Ms. Cooper is taken as a gesture of good faith while signing an agreement like this or while ending a connection—or both.

Please call if you have any suggested revisions or any further questions.

Timothy Esau

Attorney-at-Law

I set the letter down and then press my hand against the workbench to balance myself. It’s ridiculous that I’ve just seen my signature forged, that I have a brokerage account with an amount of money that could change my life forever, and this is what’s making me feel like I’ve just been kicked in the stomach.