by Tess Sharpe
Iris frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“How much have you told her?” Wes asks me. “You said you’d never—”
“I said next time, I’d work my way up to it,” I snap, my temper flaring red-hot in my chest, part anger, part guilt. “Excuse me if I didn’t realize I was required to throw all my secrets out there three months into a new relationship. I don’t owe you anything, Wes.”
His eyes flare with that deep kind of hurt. “You owed it to me to not outright lie to me.”
“I—” I snap my mouth shut, because I can’t defend myself. I had. He’d told me last month: I think she has a crush on you, and he’d nudged me with his elbow in an entirely new, almost teasing way. Wes playing matchmaker when the match was already made was bordering on rom-com territory, and I had been kissing Iris for a while at that point. It’d taken everything I had in me not to turn bright red before I shook my head and said, You know, just because we both like girls doesn’t mean we’re gonna like each other in such a bored voice he’d been the one flushing and apologizing.
I’ve felt like an asshole for weeks about it.
“And you owe Iris,” he continues, because of course he’s going to side with Iris instead of me. He used to be where she is right now: on the precarious verge of finding out the truth.
“Okay, one of you needs to stop being intense and vague right now, or I’m gonna freak out more than I already am. And we’re already hostages in a bank robbery while I’m on my period, so my anxiety and desire for chocolate and revenge is kind of high right now,” Iris declares with a lot more harried foot-tapping.
Both Wes and I zoom in on her like we’re one person.
“Do you need to sit down?” Wes asks just as I say, “Did you take your meds? I can make them give you back your purse so you can take them.”
“My meds will make me fuzzy. I’m fine. My uterus is cramping bad enough to crush a Coke can and my menstrual cup’s about to overflow, but I can deal. As long as you two start speaking like regular people instead of talking in riddles only you two understand!” She takes a deep breath, and with a jolt, I realize how pale she is. She really should sit down. She already pushed herself yesterday for the fundraiser, and now here we are, stuck in this, when she should be resting.
I should’ve told her she could stay home this morning, that I had it handled. But she made me promise to not tiptoe around her endometriosis and how sometimes her pain changes our plans, so I try not to fuss when she insists she’s okay. I just make sure to pack a barf bag and crackers and that extra-strong, extra-gross ginger ale she likes. And I hadn’t wanted to deprive any of us of getting to deposit the money we’d raised. The photo booth at the festival with the cuddlier of the shelter animals was her and Wes’s idea. They were the ones who volunteered there. I’d just been along for the ride because being with them is where I like to be most. It’d been fun. I’d been proud of how much money we’d made.
It’s a distant memory now, that pride. Replaced by panic and worry and a whole lot of fear.
“Is this about your mom?” Iris asks. “I know about her mom,” she says to Wes.
He raises his eyebrows at me.
I’ve told Iris about Mom. Kind of. I’ve told her that she’s in prison, and that my sister lied when I moved so I wouldn’t be the new kid with a felon for a mother. But I haven’t told Iris who put her there. How. Why.
She doesn’t know what Mom is. She doesn’t know about the other girls. She thinks I’m Nora. Just Nora and I’ve never been Just Nora or Just anyone. I’ve always been more. Scheming and outthinking everyone because I don’t know how else to be. I don’t know what else to do but look for the exits and then plot how to get the mark to lead me right through them.
Iris looks from him to me, and I can see the moment it clicks in that brilliant, puzzle-loving brain of hers. “I don’t know about your mom?” and the fact that her words lift in question kills me.
“You don’t know everything,” I say quietly.
“Which means she knows nothing,” Wes snaps. “Fuck, Nora. I can’t believe—”
“You never tried to order me around when we were together, and you certainly don’t get to start now,” I snarl. “If you are going to ignore the risks I’m taking here—”
“What risks?” Iris demands.
I let out a long breath, my gaze skittering toward Casey, who’s pretending really hard like she’s not listening. We don’t have time for this. We have to make a move soon, or we’re all going to end up dying in this bank.
“My mom is in prison, like I said.” I can’t even look at her. I’m not ashamed, but I’m furious. This isn’t how I wanted to tell her. “What I didn’t say was that I am the one who put her there. Because I put my stepfather in there, and he’s the love of her life and she’d do anything for him, including pick him over me, which is what she did and why she’s in prison, because she wouldn’t take a plea deal that screwed him over. Now, if we’re done spilling all my personal shit on the table, can we please hoist me up into the air vent so we can hopefully get out of here alive?”
“Air vent?” Iris echoes dazedly.
“She wants to go in the air vent and open up the manager’s office from the inside for the robbers,” Wes explains.
Whatever Iris was feeling about my revelation seems to disappear in a second at this information. “What? No! This is not a James Bond movie!”
“Iris, think about it,” I say. “They need something in the manager’s office. They’ve only wanted to get into the basement and the office. So we can make the assumption that there’s something in the office they need before they get to the basement. Considering the safe-deposit boxes are down there, what do you think it is?”
She blinks, sucking in air, and she’s still reeling a little from my news, and I hate that I’ve dumped this on her. But it’s out there now. And it’s still just skating the surface of what I need to tell her.
Rebecca. Samantha. Haley. Katie. Ashley. All the girls come with stories. And they all came with consequences.
“The robbers need the keys to whatever boxes they want to open,” she says. “They must be in the office.”
“And if they get the keys, do you think that the one in charge is going to let the one in the red cap just go down there himself to grab whatever they came for?”
A slow smile tugs across her face. “They don’t trust each other.”
“We open the office, they find what they want inside, they’re gonna need to both go down to the basement. Leaving us unguarded. It’s at least an opportunity to get out.”
Now she’s looking up at the air vent. “We can pry this cover open, but you’re going to have to bust through the one in the office. They might hear it fall. Give me the scissors.”
I hand them to her, and she pulls up her skirt to expose the layers of her petticoat, cuts a long strip free, and hands it to me. “Tie that around the vent cover before you apply pressure. If it pops free, it’ll dangle instead of fall.”
I wrap it around my wrist like a bracelet. “Iris—”
She shakes her head, cutting me off. “It’s not a great plan, but you’re right. We need to give ourselves a chance.”
I want to say something, but any explanation I give is going to take forever, and we don’t have time. “Turn around, both of you.”
Wes frowns. “Why?”
“Because it’s gonna be dusty up in there, and if I don’t turn my clothes inside out, it’ll be immediately apparent who opened the office. We want to make them wonder.”
They both turn, and so does Casey in the corner, and it takes me just a minute to get my boots off, and my pants and shirt inside out. I’ll leave my flannel with Iris.
“Okay. I’m good.”
“What’s the plan?” Wes asks.
“I figure it’ll take me at least five minutes to c
rawl over to the office. Keep an eye on the clock. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, it’s probably gone wrong.”
Wes nods.
“Don’t do anything that will draw them in here before I come back. If they know I’m loose, they’ll start shooting up the ceiling.”
“Be careful,” he says.
I turn to Iris. She smiles, but it’s shaky, and I want to lean over to kiss her because what if this is it? What if they catch me?
But if I do that, then it confirms a maybe-goodbye.
“I’ll be back,” I tell her. “And I’ll explain. Okay? I’ll explain everything.”
She nods tightly, and I grab the scissors out of my waistband. Wes bends, linking his fingers into a foothold, and I step into it. He hoists me up, and using the flat end of the scissors blade, I pry the air vent cover free, place the scissors inside, and hand it down; then Wes lifts me higher. Grabbing the vent, I pull myself up and inside.
— 15 —
Abigail Deveraux, aka the Queen of Grift (aka My Mom)
I don’t even know where to start with her. My mother. Justine. Gretchen. Maya. The names go on and on . . . Who knows how many there have really been?
But her real name is Abby.
I could write novels about what she’s done. The lessons I’ve learned. The shit she’s put me through. The love I had for her. The knowledge that’s so terrible it blots out that love completely.
I’d run out of ink before I even got to the rest.
I knew her, is the thing. And when you live a life like she lives, there’s very few people who can say that.
I knew her, and that was not a good thing.
She wanted daughters who would grow up to be just like her. And she got Lee and me instead. Girls who were molded by her actions over her pretty words. Girls who grew up straddling this strange line between good and bad. In her work, Lee floats between the criminal world and the legal one. And me?
I don’t fit anywhere. Lee pulled me out before Mom could fully get her grip in me, but Mom had too much time to get in my head to let me live a real life. I’ve been too many different girls to have a deep grasp on myself, and I don’t know what to do with any of the parts. They’re all me. They’re all useful. They’re all a little bit destructive . . . and that’s always been my problem.
I’ve danced way too long on the tilted ground. I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m on something steady.
Mom and I?
We have that in common.
We have too much in common.
— 16 —
10:15 a.m. (63 minutes captive)
1 lighter, 3 bottles of vodka, 1 pair of scissors, 1 strip of petticoat
Plan: In progress
The air vent is gross. Dusty and rank, and the entire time I’m breathing through my mouth as I crawl forward, stomach down, inch by inch, desperately trying to stay quiet and not sneeze.
I’ve left my boots behind—they’d make too much noise—and I serpentine through the cobwebs and stale air, staring down through the slats of each vent that I come across, counting. One, two, three.
I peer into the darkened room below me, and then bam. I hear it even in the ceiling. They’re trying to ram the door open. Haven’t they figured out it’s not going to work? I’d be looking for a crowbar by now. Or Googling how to pick a damn lock. They’ve got videos online and everything.
I unwind the petticoat strip from my wrist and tie it around the vent. There’s a murmur of voices I can’t make out, and then the thumping stops. I can’t tell if there are footsteps. I close my eyes, counting to twenty.
I scoot forward and bring my elbow down on the center of the vent’s grate. It pops out easily and dangles in the air from the length of petticoat as I lower it to the ground quietly. And then I drop down, wincing as my bare feet hit the floor. I duck behind the desk, waiting.
“. . . isn’t working,” I hear, muffled through the door. “Barely a fucking dent!”
“You’re the one who pulled out the gun before you made sure Frayn was in his office,” Gray Cap’s rough voice shoots back. “This is your mess. I never should’ve let you in on this.”
“Oh fuck you.”
More pounding, frustrated this time, instead of purposeful. But each angry burst of sound sends fear spiking inside me. My back is pressed so hard up against the desk, I’m going to have the shape of the drawer handle imprinted into my rib cage forever.
“Take a break,” Gray Cap orders, and then it’s quiet. Blessedly quiet.
The office is dark, the only light coming from the tiny inaccessible windows set at the top of the room that aren’t more than six inches wide. I peek over the edge of the desk, trying to get my eyes to adjust. I can see the shadow of a phone, and my heart slams in my chest.
When the door doesn’t start thumping again, I don’t know if it’s because they’ve both left or if one of them is just outside, waiting for the other to cool down and come back.
I look at the phone again. Risk. Reward. Risk. Reward.
I grab it and dial Lee’s cell. It rings twice, and then she picks up.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” I whisper, as quietly as possible.
“Nora?” Lee’s voice cracks. “Are you okay? Where are you in the bank? Is Wes with you? His truck is here.”
“I’m in the back, where the offices are. Wes and Iris are with me. There are two robbers. I’ve seen two guns. A shotgun and a semiautomatic. I don’t know if they have more. They want the safe-deposit boxes. I’m trying to make it so they go down the basement together, so we can run for it.”
“Nora, they’ve used the furniture to barricade the front,” Lee says. “Do not try to get out the front. You might not have enough time to get it cleared before they come back. It’s a dead end. We don’t have a way in until SWAT gets here with the blasting equipment. The fucking building is like a brick fortress.”
“How do we get out?” I whisper.
“The basement’s got an exit. But we can’t access it from the outside.”
Of course. I close my eyes. Shit. Time to throw the basement plan out the window.
“Nora?” Lee says.
“I love you.” I need to say it to her. I don’t say it a lot. I should’ve said it more.
“Nora.” A warning I don’t heed.
“I’ll figure it out.” A promise I have to make. “Just . . . I need you to pull out the megaphone. I need to be sure they’re out of this hallway.”
“What hallway?”
“Lee.”
“Right. Megaphone. Got it.”
“I gotta go.”
I hang up before I can sob or whimper. I crouch in that dark office for a moment, fear battering through me like fists. And I wait.
This far away from the parking lot, her voice is faded, but Lee has a way of projecting, even without a megaphone.
“I’ve got some information for you about your friend Mr. Frayn. But you’re not picking up my calls.”
The phones start ringing again, on cue.
I strain to hear it: footsteps fading away. I think I hear it. God, please, let that be it and not just wishful thinking.
I’ve got no choice but to spring into action. I don’t have time to be neat, so I tear through his desk like a whirlwind. Where are they? Keys, gold, brass, silver, long, skinny, short, I need them. I headed into this thinking I wanted to hand the keys over like a gift, and now the last thing I want is for them to get their hands near them. They get into the basement, we won’t get out alive. Gray Cap is totally the kind of guy who’d use a hostage as a human shield.
There aren’t any keys in any of Theodore Frayn’s desk drawers. His filing cabinets don’t yield anything either. I don’t have much more time. The phones are still ringing. Gray Cap still hasn’t picked up. Pick up, you jerk.
> And then the ringing stops, and relief curls in my stomach. Gray Cap’s engaging Lee. He’s not right outside.
I push the filing cabinet drawer back, and that’s when I hear the metallic click on the bottom. I pull it out again, tilting my head upside down, and there it is: two keys on a ring, taped underneath the drawer. One of the keys has come loose from the tape, dangling free. They’re the old-fashioned ones with the box number stamped on them. They’re the same kind that Lee used to open her own safe-deposit box here.
Unsticking them, I tuck them into my bra. I’ve been here too long. Even if there is a key to the vault around here somewhere, I don’t have time to look more. I’ve got part of what they wanted, at least. Now it’s time to set the trap.
First, I position the office chair underneath the air vent. With my escape secure, I grab a pen off the desk and the pad of sticky notes. Scrawling two words on it, I stick it to the stapler. Then I creep across the room, unlock the door, and open it a crack, slipping the stapler in the gap to keep it open.
The key is to kick the office chair to the side as I pull myself back into the vent. That way, it slides right back into place behind the desk and the entire room looks undisturbed. Except for the open door and my little note.
A total mind-fuck.
Step one of my new plan.
If you can’t beat ’em, you join ’em.
Or, in this case, you con ’em.
— 17 —
Phone Transcript, Lee Ann O’Malley Engages Hostage Taker #1 (HT1)