Forever Yours,

Bill

Beatrice’s eyes bulged as she read the last line. A man named Bill was having an affair with Doris. There was no doubt about it. She leafed through letter after letter, all written in the same scrawling hand, and all signed by Bill. There were at least fifty letters. Her eyes darted back to a bank letter signed by William S. Thompson. She picked it up and compared it to the love letter in her hand. The penmanship matched.

The papers fell from her hand. Doris once had an affair with Bill Thompson. The mystery man who had visited Doris in the hospital might have been Bill. Beatrice stumbled out of the room in a daze. She fished the lonely can of beer out of the fridge and cracked it open. It tasted awful.

Doris had a pile of old bank records in her bedroom and a safe deposit box. None of it made sense, but Box 547 might hold the answers. Beatrice rifled through her purse until she found her aunt’s keys. She fanned the key ring out in her palm, searching for the right one. The beer can hit the ground. Key 547 was gone.

CHAPTER 22

Beatrice marched into the office Tuesday morning, spoiling for a fight. Max had simply gone too far. She tried to convince herself that Max had stolen the key to help Beatrice access the box, but her stomach didn’t buy the explanation. How could she just take it like that?

Of course, Max was nowhere to be found on a Tuesday morning. She always came in late. While that had never bothered her before, suddenly Beatrice was enraged by the inequity. She looked up at the Sisters Grim, the old crone, the mousy girl in the corner, and Francine clacking on her typewriter next to her. They all worked hard. They kept their heads down. They didn’t sneak off to the bathroom to smoke, and they certainly never came to work two hours late.

As if on cue, Francine nodded a terse greeting.

“Good morning, Francine,” Beatrice muttered.

Beatrice tried to busy herself with some filing Mr. Rothstein had given her, but she found herself looking over her shoulder for Max all morning. When the lunch hour came and went with no sign of Max, she became even more infuriated. Was Max avoiding her? Did she call in sick? She tapped her foot against the floor. Francine glared at her, clearly annoyed. Beatrice stopped and got up, exasperated.

In the restroom, she checked her hair and makeup in the mirror and paused. Maybe her aunt’s illness had aged her, because the woman staring back at her in the mirror looked much older than the girl she remembered. Her blond hair was swept up, and she’d taken to wearing red lipstick, just like Max. She grabbed a paper towel and scrubbed her lips until they were pink again.

She was just sitting back down at her desk when Mr. Halloran opened his door and motioned her to his office. Her stomach sank a little as she grabbed her notepad. He always crowded the door so she had to brush against him to get by.

“So Beatrice, how is your special assignment working out?” he asked, staring at her legs.

She kept her knees and ankles pressed together tightly. “I’m sorry?”

“What are you finding out about Mr. Thompson’s project?” His long, manicured fingers softly traced the edge of his leather blotter. His eyes traced the line of her neck. From the droop of his eye, she could tell he’d been drinking again.

She cleared her throat and shifted in the chair uncomfortably. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided that she didn’t owe Max her loyalty any longer. Max was a thief. “Well, apparently Mr. Thompson has been performing a secret audit of the safe deposit boxes. Maxine McDonnell says she’s been following up on the records and calling customers.”

Mr. Halloran stopped gazing at her neck. “Is that it?”

“Yes . . . Well, except that some of the records are missing altogether.”

“Missing?” He raised his eyebrows.

Beatrice knotted her hands, wishing she hadn’t said so much, but it was too late. “All I know is that a few years ago a customer claimed the State of Ohio had no record of repossessing her safe deposit box . . . That’s when the audit started.”

A wide smile spread across Randy’s face. “Well done, Beatrice. I’ll be sure to let Ms. Cunningham know what a valuable asset you’re turning out to be. I’m going to be giving you all of my assignments from now on.”

Beatrice didn’t know whether to smile or frown and did neither. For better or worse, she was working for Randy. If anything Max had said could be trusted, Beatrice’s job at the bank was safe.

He stood up and grabbed a large stack of files. “These records are restricted access and quite sensitive. I need them sorted according to the footnotes and refiled. Can you get them back to me by the end of the day?”

The heavy files made her list to one side as he dropped them in her arms. “Of course, Mr. Halloran.”

He led her to the door. “Please, Beatrice, call me Randy.”

Back at her desk, Beatrice opened the first file and puzzled over the typed sheet of paper. It was all numbers—rows and rows of dollar amounts and dates. The header read “STHM” and the footer read “%$%.” She began making piles of the sheets according to the symbols at the bottom of each page as Mr. Halloran had commanded. Within minutes her desk was covered with the stacks of paper, and she realized she was drawing attention to herself and the sensitive documents. She gathered them up and began stuffing the pages into blank manila folders in her file drawer.

An hour later she carried the stack back to Mr. Halloran’s office and softly knocked on his door. When there was no response, she turned the handle and peered inside. Mr. Halloran’s desk was empty. Relieved there wouldn’t be another awkward encounter, she set the stack of files on the edge of his desk. A narrow wood door behind his desk stood open. She’d never noticed it before. There was a glimmer of white tile.

Beatrice craned her neck to get a better look inside the mysterious room. There was a large stone sink and a shower. She took a few steps forward for a better look.

“It’s pretty old-fashioned, isn’t it?” Mr. Halloran’s hot breath fell on her neck. She hadn’t heard him walk in.

Beatrice jumped. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Halloran, I was just leaving the files . . .”

“Randy,” he corrected her, smiling slyly as he stepped toward her.

She instinctively stepped back. “I’m so sorry, Randy. I was just leaving you the files and noticed the door open. It was incredibly rude of me.”

He was uncomfortably close. She took another step back.

“The whole point of these rooms is privacy. Privacy is very important, don’t you agree?” he said, and ran a finger down the length of her arm.

Panic swelled inside her. She had backed into his private washroom. His office door was shut. He lifted her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her mind raced through her options as he studied her lips. Kicking and screaming her way out of the bathroom would get her fired. His eyes twinkled as she squirmed. He really is a shark, she thought, and in a flash the answer came to her. What would Max do?

She leaned toward him, pressing her hips dangerously close to his. In her most seductive voice, she murmured, “Randy, we don’t really have time for this, do we?”

It caught him off guard. Before he could react, she eased out from the corner. One foot in front of the other, she sauntered out of the bathroom all the way back to her desk, too terrified to look back.

She sat down, knees shaking. One row behind her, Max’s desk was still empty.