Page 56 of Holding On

The building used to be a bank.

Banks have vaults.

I start shifting furniture from walls, being very careful to set the legs back down exactly in their delineated spots so the rugs won’t give me away. There’s a medium-sized sofa, two end tables, three small bookcases, and a cabinet flush against the wall.

There’s no reason to have a sofa in here, and it isn’t near the desk. That’s my first guess, but the wall behind it is unblemished, and the sofa clearly isn’t hiding a safe.

After I put the second small table away and make sure to line up the little divots in the carpet, I focus on the three bookcases. That clock on the wall is making me nervous, though. I realize one of the bookcases is slightly taller than the matching other two because it’s on wheels.

Wheels. To make it easier to move?

Though heavy with books, it manages to roll with some shoving. I’m sweating now, uncomfortable, and my shirt sticks to the small of my back.

But as soon as I stand back and take a look, it’s all worth it.

There, in the center of the wall, is a small, ornate vault, probably made at the turn of the century. C.C. Cobb is written on one side in raised metal print. The tumbler is steel and copper, the numbers cleanly defined. I just have no idea how to open it.

His phone rings, and I about jump out of my skin. I don’t dare answer it. It’s a direct line. Gretchen’s office phone never rang.

After pushing the bookcase back into position, I scuffle the carpeting to make the wheel marks disappear.

I figure I’m allowed to make some assumptions about a hidden safe.

The question is how to open it.

Then I realize: it needs to open itself.

***

Barr returns from court before Gretchen makes an appearance. When he asks where she is, I shrug.

“She said something about evidence missing or something. She said she’d be back before lunch.”

“And you’re taking a cab to get a statement from that realtor in Cushing, correct? For the Farnum case?”

“Yes. I double-checked the appointment. And I called the cab company and gave them the credit card info.”

His eyes narrow, but he says nothing and then enters his office. I feel like my heart is going to leap out of my chest. I wait about a minute, and just as I start to sit down again at my desk, his door opens.

He speaks softly. “Has anyone been in my office?”

I glance at him and then fix a stare I hope will convince him I’m telling the truth. Partial truths. Partial truths. “I was in there for a few minutes. Your phone rang, and I thought I should maybe get it but didn’t know for sure. It stopped before I could answer.”

“Ah,” he says.

“Can I talk to you about something for a minute?”

Suddenly, some half-baked plan I didn’t know I had formed into speech. Mustering up a few tears, I wring my hands, trying to look as if I’m fighting for control. I probably should have waited to bounce this off Audrey or Carlson. Someone who knows what they’re doing.

His light blue eyes glitter, not with compassion or concern, but with opportunity—like he’s playing a chess game.

I know that look all too well.

“What’s wrong? You all right?” he says, and he lays a hand across my shoulder blades. I shiver slightly from his touch. It’s like being touched by a lizard.

The shiver is perfectly timed, however.

“Sit down. You look upset. What’s going on?” His forehead furrows with concern I know he doesn’t feel. He’s the kind of man who’s always probing, always trying to find an angle that will benefit him. If he helped me, then maybe I would do him a favor some time. Transactional.