Fortunately, the teller took just one quick look at the key and seemed to know exactly what to do. “I’ll call the manager, miss,” she announced in a clipped tone, and pressed a button on the console in front of her.
Calling the manager, or hitting the panic button? Jane wondered wildly, but the man who popped out of a side door in response definitely looked more “manager” than “security.” He was a sturdy but somehow fragile-looking man with a delicate nose and tiny wire-framed glasses, who seemed almost painfully delighted to meet Jane. She hesitated for a moment after he introduced himself as James McDeary, but his hazel eyes darted first to the little key, and then to the passport she held loosely open in one hand.
“Miss Chase, I presume,” he announced, wringing his hands in a thoroughly depressing mixture of anxiety and delight. “This way, please.” McDeary whisked her along a dizzying series of glass-and-marble hallways, his voice pattering nearly as quickly as his footsteps. He had been happy, he told her—terribly happy, in fact—to see Malcolm Chase again last month. Of course, he had been handling Mr. Chase’s account personally for quite some time, but, to his sincere regret, hadn’t seen him in years.
At that last bit of news, Jane had to fight her impulse to turn and run straight back out of the bank. He’s known this “Malcolm Chase” for years? Jane had only known Malcolm for a few months. What had he been up to that he had needed an alias, apparently, before even meeting her? It couldn’t have had anything to do with their escape plan, and she wondered if she had even been supposed to come here at all. But she held her ground and kept her face composed as they turned into the silent, airless-feeling safe room.
“It’s this one in the corner,” McDeary told her, pointing with a finger that trembled faintly with his obvious joy. Jane took in row upon row of stainless-steel doors lining every wall. A simple table made of matching metal stood in the center of the room; other than that, it was as bare as the surface of a star. “Box 41811. I was concerned that it might be too small when your . . . your . . .”
Jane squeezed the fingers of her left hand together surreptitiously: Gran’s silver ring never left her second finger, but she had removed her incredibly conspicuous engagement ring weeks ago. Luckily, she had also left off her plainer wedding band. “My brother,” she told the manager firmly.
“Brother, of course! I see the resemblance, naturally. Anyway, I thought you might need a larger safe when he came in with the new item, but luckily it all fit. Many customers are, you know, very particular about keeping the same box, especially when it’s one they’ve had for a long time. And Mr. Chase is one of our very valued, long-term customers, of course, so I was pleased to be able to keep his location consistent, as I’m sure that he hopefully was as well . . .”
Jane’s head was swimming, and she could barely read the tiny numbers on the stacked rows of boxes. She held up the key Malcolm had left inside her passport in one faintly trembling hand. He removed a matching one from his pocket, inserted it into one lock on box 41811, and nodded meaningfully toward the other one. They turned their keys in near-unison, and the box slid smoothly free of the wall. Jane carried it to a stainless-steel table in the middle of the room, while McDeary lowered his eyes discreetly to the floor.
The box was almost completely filled by a black leather case, and Jane could feel her heart pounding in her ears as she reached for it. She fumbled with the latches, snaps, and ties—just how many ways do you need to keep a lid on—until finally, unexpectedly, the case opened.
Money, she told herself. Of course it’s just money. There was a lot of it, in fact: certainly more than she had left in her Grand Central stash. But she couldn’t deny the shiver of excitement that ran down her spine when, looking past the neat green-and-gray stacks, she saw the corner of something . . . else. She dug eagerly through the pile of cash, carelessly moving more hundreds than she could count out of the way like empty candy wrappers. Money was welcome, but the real proof that Malcolm had been thinking of her was finally in her hands.
“It’s a . . . checkbook,” she said out loud, flipping the faux-crocodile cover open. The checks were drawn on an account at the First Trust Bank of New York, in the name of Caroline Chase. After a quick search, Jane found a second book, with a different account number, for Malcolm Chase. He was careful, she thought sadly. He knew one of us might be caught, and kept our names separate even when we were supposed to be together.
McDeary cleared his throat, and Jane jumped. “Sorry,” he mumbled, offering what looked an awful lot like a bow of apology. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Your brother had some instructions about that.”
My who? Jane almost asked, but bit the question back. Right. My name is Caroline. Malcolm’s name is Malcolm. My husband is my brother, because he killed my grandmother and now his mother wants to steal my as-yet-unconceived baby. It’s simple, Jane; keep up!
McDeary was eagerly explaining a complicated-sounding system of linked accounts and automatic transfers from somewhere offshore, triggered by withdrawals from her checking account. The gist, Jane eventually understood, was that she had as much money as she wanted, replaced into her account as fast as she could spend it. No more Rivington, she thought gleefully. After a quick mental catalog, she decided that she wouldn’t have to go back even once. Everything that mattered was in her purse; everything else could be left behind. She was rich again, and money equaled freedom.
“Thank you,” she said randomly, hoping it had come out during an appropriate pause in McDeary’s lengthy elaboration on the finer points of international banking treaties.
“My pleasure, certainly,” he chirped, looking as though he was seriously considering another bow.
Jane ran her hands over the leather of the case, looking futilely for a handle. She finally settled for folding it awkwardly in her arms. It was an inconvenient way to walk, but it was only temporary, she reminded herself: everything was about to get a whole lot easier.
“But, Miss Chase!” McDeary nearly whimpered in sudden concern.
Busted! her brain shouted, and Jane stopped breathing. But McDeary wasn’t chasing her, setting off the bank’s alarm system, or even looking at her at all: his entire focus was on the dark interior of box 41811. Not busted. Yet.
“Did you not want the personal item?” McDeary frowned uncertainly, straightening back up and turning a small blue box between his smooth palms. He hesitated and then cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing vulnerably. “Mr. Chase didn’t leave instructions about this, specifically, but he clearly assigned you full ownership of the safe . . .”
Jane turned, softening. Knowing that Malcolm had left her something personal, meaningful, suddenly meant much more to her than all of the stacks of cash she could carry. She fought the urge to rip the box out of his hands, and instead reached for it as politely as she could bear. “Yes,” she answered firmly. “I’ll be taking that as well.”
The manager’s hazel eyes, made small and watery-looking by the lenses in front of them, followed the box as Jane took it. “That was the item that brought Mr. Chase to us to begin with. He said we had excellent references among his friends, and I do hope he has been happy with our services.” His thin chest puffed out with pride. “He has been a client for nearly fifteen years, of course, so I like to think that we have met his needs.”
“Of course,” Jane assured him automatically. “He told me so.” McDeary smiled deferentially, but Jane’s mind was racing. Nearly fifteen years, and it started with this. She lifted the box’s catch with numb fingers. This box wasn’t for her. Whatever it was, it had predated her in Malcolm’s life by more than a decade. She felt a blush mounting on her cheeks and wondered if there was a graceful way to back out of taking it now.
Just then the catch released, and the lid fell open so easily that Jane, startled, nearly dropped the whole thing. The inside of the box was lined with soft blue velvet, and tucked securely inside was a glass unicorn. It was pretty, with finely pulled legs and
an elegantly arched neck, and little touches of gold on the hooves and horn. But “pretty” was the only word to describe the unicorn: there was nothing about it that gave any impression whatsoever of magic, or even of substantial monetary value. It looked, Jane decided, like the sort of thing you could buy in any mall in America. Why this? she wondered, touching a tiny hoof experimentally with one chipped fingernail. She half-expected a magical frisson but got nothing. As far as she could tell, the “personal item” Malcolm had been storing all this time was nothing more than a piece of glass.
It’s not for me. It’s none of my business what it is, she reproached herself sternly. She closed the box with a snap. “Thank you,” she began, unsure what to say next. “I had no idea what was in here, and now I don’t think I should be taking it” doesn’t really have a great ring to it.
“Of course; I’m thrilled to be able to help Mr. Chase and his family. And I’m sure that item is sentimental for you as well, since he told me it belonged to—” McDeary stopped midsentence, his small eyes narrowing to slits. “Excuse me. You did say that you are Mr. Chase’s younger sister, yes?”
I didn’t say younger, Jane’s mind hissed. Not that it was a huge leap: Malcolm was eight years older than her, and anyone as ingratiating as McDeary had to know that it was always good policy to assume women were young. But his eyes were riveted on her in a new and unpleasant way, and Jane’s skin crawled a little. The still, dead air of the safe room prickled at her skin with a new sort of static charge.
Jane fought her panic: the secure room of a secure building was a terrible place to freak out and blow her cover for good. She bit the inside of her lip so hard that she tasted salt, forcing herself to meet McDeary’s eyes and smile at him. It was the very same smile she had turned toward Lynne countless times during the horrible, dangerous month after she’d learned that Lynne was a totally evil witch; it fit like her favorite pair of jeans. “Yes. And I’ll be sure to tell him how thorough you’ve been in explaining all of this to me.”
She saw doubt flicker over McDeary’s face, and knew he was wondering if he might have somehow been indiscreet. She felt bad for making him worry, but she had no choice but to press her advantage. She shoved the little blue box into her straw purse, bundled the larger black case back into her arms, and turned resolutely for the door. “It’s to the left and then the third door, yes?”
“I’d be happy to escort you, of course,” McDeary offered politely.
“That won’t be necessary,” she told him frostily, doing her very best impression of Lynne Doran’s effortlessly commanding voice. McDeary snapped to attention, his right arm twitching in an almost-salute.
Thank God he’s used to being bossed around, she sighed as her kitten-heeled feet clicked out of the safe room. And that I’ve learned how to do it. As she strode purposefully out of the building, not even the two armed guards hulked at either side of the front door could stop her from smiling at the irony of Lynne having taught her such a useful skill.
Chapter Three
“Now it’s a little bigger than we’d discussed, but I simply can’t not show it to you.” Jane’s new real-estate agent giggled, shoving her ample hip against the apartment door.
“Ooh.” Jane breathed, taking in the wall of windows that made the living room glow like a piece of amber. The floor was lined with close-fitting hardwood planks, which had been polished to a uniformly pale-gold glow, and the room was pleasantly asymmetrical. The walls were a creamy white that made the high ceilings look even higher, and the scattering of furniture was made exclusively of glass, nubby white fabric, and pale, bonelike sticks of driftwood. Spare, minimalistic prints on the walls added unexpected touches of vivid purple ink to the room’s palette, echoed by a cozy-looking blanket folded neatly on the couch.
Jane spied a kitchen, off to her left, full of gleaming appliances. It was a bit narrow to her eye, especially after the Dorans’ huge green-marbled one, but there was room for a thin-legged table and more than enough room for a person to cook—especially one who cooked as infrequently as she did. A long, narrow hallway ran out from the angled right-hand wall, which, she assumed, led to the bedroom. Although she was sure that she should probably play it cool, she couldn’t help returning the agent’s broad, eager smile.
The perfectly frosted-and-set woman had been openly skeptical when Jane had arrived in her office in her thrift store–heavy ensemble asking about Manhattan properties. But when Jane, who had come straight from the bank with her helpful case of money, named what she felt would be a reasonable monthly sum for a living space that would drive every last vestige of the Rivington from her mind, the agent had gotten a lot friendlier. Apparently concluding that Jane was a trust-fund baby in the midst of a totally fake “rebellion,” or possibly a minor celebrity who was committed to seeming “quirky,” she had immediately come up with a long list of apartments that were “just a little” pricier than Jane’s budget.
Jane, who loved open, airy spaces and whose budget had been well below her new, nearly unlimited, means, didn’t mind a bit.
“Now, I know it looks like a lot of glass,” the agent warned, “but the bedrooms have more privacy, of course. And you’re on the top floor, so do come and see the view.”
“Bedrooms,” plural? Jane wondered wryly; she had definitely inquired about one-bedroom apartments only. But then she saw the view, and she stopped caring. The wide wall of windows looked out over block upon block of quaint brick and low roofs, eventually ending in a strange glimmer that Jane was pretty sure was the Hudson River. It looked almost European; nothing at all like the brittle, vertical city that had already cost her so much.
“And this room would be perfect for an office,” the realtor prattled on, waving her arm into the second bedroom while Jane peered into the first. Walk-in closet, skylight, king-size bed, en suite bathroom. Check, check, check . . . “Or for guests—everyone I know with an extra room has guests nearly year-round if they want them! Or sometimes young women prefer to live with a friend, which, if the rent is more than you had planned on, could be a lovely alternative.” She nodded sagely, curls bobbing in steely unison, and then vanished back down the hall, presumably to show Jane the “incredibly efficiently conceived kitchen.”
Jane, whose main requirements for a kitchen were a phone and a place to stack takeout menus, didn’t follow her. Instead she kicked off her scuffed kitten-heeled slides and sat gingerly on the nubby white couch. It was comfortable, and she curled her feet up underneath her, watching the roofs glow suddenly and sporadically in the rays of light that peeked tentatively out from the low-hanging clouds.
The agent clicked back into the living room, an alert and searching look on her face. She was clearly nonplussed by the sight of Jane barefoot on the couch, and hesitated long enough for Jane to speak first.
“I need to make a call,” Jane told her calmly, relishing the way the careful angles of the room swallowed her voice. She had always intended to build spaces just like this, before she’d gone and let “true love” completely derail her budding architecture career. Just being inside of it made her feel more grounded, more like herself again. She remembered the version of herself that had made an Eiffel Tower out of matches; the bright-eyed student who had walked into her internship at Atelier Antoine for the first time. She felt as though it could actually be possible to get her world back, and after her three hopeless weeks of trying to disappear, she didn’t intend to lose sight of the real goal ever again. It’s not just about safety. It’s about freedom. She turned her body toward the realtor, who stiffened slightly. “I’ve forgotten my phone.”
“Please, use mine,” the realtor murmured, pulling a sleek Prada phone out of her quilted-leather purse—Chanel, Jane noticed clinically. She was feeling stronger by the second. The other woman had clearly noticed the change as she backed hurriedly out of the room, never taking her eyes off Jane.
Jane slid the keyboard out from behind the screen. She hadn’t “forgotten” her phone,
exactly, but she had put it in “airplane mode” the night of the accident for fear that the Dorans could use its signal to find her somehow. She fished it out of her straw tote and scrolled through the contacts to the Ds, where she found the number she was looking for. She entered it into the agent’s phone, and waited with mounting anxiety through the strange, fluttery American ringing noises.
“Diana Rivera,” a familiar, throaty voice answered, and Jane’s throat closed briefly with joy.
“Dee,” she sighed, “you’re safe.” After Dee had helped Jane to kill the Dorans’ driver, Yuri (in an alley in Brooklyn, not on Park Avenue the way Lynne had apparently made it look), the Wiccan with a gift for pastry had had to leave her job and her apartment. They had considered it too risky that the police might link Yuri’s corpse to the address of one of the women who had made Jane’s wedding cake, and much too risky that Lynne might do so. And although the magically transported body had probably removed any threat of legal suspicion, it did nothing to make Dee any safer from the witches’ retaliation.
“Ja— Are you kidding me? Is that you?” There was a scuffling noise, and Jane guessed that Dee might be taking her phone to a more private place. She’s probably at that Misty woman’s bookstore, Jane reminded herself. There might be customers. Dee’s oldest friend in New York owned an occult bookstore, and Jane had been fairly sure that Dee would go there to lie low. “Wait.” Dee’s voice came a little more clearly through the speaker now. “Actually, I think I need you to prove that it is you. I don’t really know what’s possible for . . . you know . . . people like you.”
The Dark Glamour Page 2