Chapter 8

Mila does not answer right away.

She studies the paper instead of him. Her handwriting isn't on it. Her fingerprints could be, but she wore gloves that day, thin black ones from a dollar store and she is almost sure of it.

At the edge of his desk sits a glass of water. Full, no ice, untouched. A ring of condensation is spreading beneath it across the black wood. She thinks of what Sophia said on the stairs after the party : “Mr. Wendell never drinks water. Black coffee, always.”

Mila files that away and says nothing.

"Clara Hunt," Cavan repeats. "Who is she?"

"Nobody important." Mila shifts in her chair. "My mother opens everything that comes to our house with my name on it. Last night she read a bank letter out loud at the bottom of the stairs, like it was the evening news. Ask her about it. I believe she'd love the audience."

"So you rented a box under a false name because your mother reads your mail."

"I rented a box because I wanted one thing that was mine. I didn't know it would turn into a federal case."

"It isn't a case. It's unusual."

"I'm nineteen and I live with Margaret Collins. It's the most normal thing I've done all year."

He doesn't smile and he doesn't look angry. He just watches her the way a man studies a lock before deciding whether it's worth the trouble.

"According to the report, you have almost no savings," he says. "A box costs money and a false name costs more. So, where did it come from?"

Mila tilts her head, as if she's honestly considering it.

"I don't see how that's any of your business."

The room goes quiet. It is the quiet she remembers from her first life, the kind that fell over a boardroom when someone told the wrong man no. She waits for the explosion. She waits for him to remind her what her father's company looks like without his signature.

He does neither. Instead, he slides the paper into the folder, squares its edge against the desk and lays his pen parallel to it. Everything on that desk is at a right angle except the glass.

"You're about to work on my floor," he says.

"I’ll start on Monday, yes. You mentioned it." She stands, smooths her skirt and lifts her bag.

"But it's Thursday. Until I'm on your payroll, what I do with my time is between me and the post office. Ask again in six months. I might be in a better mood."

"Sit down, Miss Collins."

"I can't, I have a lecture at two."

"Sit."

"I really can't. Thank you, though."

He rises. Standing, he is a head taller and doesn't pretend otherwise. He crosses the carpet without a sound and stops beside the double doors, one palm flat against the frame.

"One more thing. Everyone who enters this office leaves their phone and bag at the door. It's policy. As of today, it applies to you."

Her pulse skips.

Did he somehow find about the recorder? But the recorder and the black phone are both nestled in my coat lining, six inches from my ribs.

She keeps her face easy. "That's an odd rule."

"It's a necessary one."

"For whom?"

"For me."

"Then someone should have told me when I walked in." She hitches the strap higher on her shoulder. "I'm not handing over my things in the middle of a conversation. Put the rule in writing and I'll read it over the weekend."

"That is not how this works."

"It is today."

Neither of them moves. His hand stays on the frame and hers stays on the strap, and she understands that whoever lets go first will lose something she can't name.

Then he steps aside and she knows deep down that it isn't surrender. It is a warning and he plans to come back to this issue.

"Remember to be here on Monday before 8. am," Cavan says.

"I'm never late," Mila says, which was never true of the girl she used to be, and walks out without looking back.

She makes it as far as the elevator before her knees go soft. She leans against the brass rail and slips two fingers inside her coat until they find a small metal key on a chain, warm against her collarbone.

This is the key to her riches and she intends to keep it hidden.