Beatrice flopped onto the bed and stared at the closed book.

CHAPTER 59

The sun streamed into the room the next morning, waking Beatrice from a dead sleep. Her fitful nights in the building had taken their toll. She could barely pick her head off of the pillow. She blinked at the blinding sun and then sat up with a jolt. She was late for work. Her clothes were slept in, and she didn’t have so much as a toothbrush with her. She ran to the bathroom to rinse her mouth and smooth down her hair. She looked like she’d slept under a bridge, but it would have to do. Running out of the room in her half-buttoned coat, she nearly forgot the incriminating journal hiding under her pillow. She threw it back in her purse and rushed out into the crisp morning.

There were eleven days until Christmas. The streets were decked in red and green, and the sidewalks were filled with smiling, chatting people on their merry walks to work. Beatrice barreled past them, pushing her way through the gray snow. When she finally reached 1010 Euclid Avenue, she was twenty minutes late. She hurried to the elevators, cursing the clocks. She didn’t want to draw any attention in the Auditing Department, at least not until she had left for good.

When Beatrice stepped off the elevator, she realized drawing attention to herself was the least of her worries. No one was at their desk. All of the secretaries were standing in a clump in the corner, talking in hushed voices. Beatrice stood nailed to the ground in the office entrance, gaping at the commotion. Something had happened—something big. Her first instinct was to turn around and run out of the building. Get out. But she couldn’t leave yet. All of her possessions were still up on the eleventh floor. She just had to make it through one more day. She inched her way toward the clutch of women.

“What’s going on?” she whispered to Francine.

The woman looked out of place standing on her feet instead of hunching over her typewriter. “You don’t know?” Francine asked, looking down her pointed nose at Beatrice.

Beatrice felt her heart skip a beat. “No.”

“It seems that your little friend Maxine has been up to something more sinister than any of us imagined.”

The words “guilty by association” were written all over the woman’s hard, lined face. Beatrice opened her mouth to protest and ask more questions, but before she could make a squeak, Ms. Cunningham came thundering up to the crowd.

“Ladies! Ladies, please!” the rotund woman bellowed. “Get back to your desks. This is the First Bank of Cleveland, not a sewing circle. I’m going to dock ten minutes from each of your time cards.”

“I . . . I don’t understand,” Beatrice said out loud, feeling more and more hysterical.

“Mr. Thompson will be meeting with each of you individually this morning to discuss the events of the last twenty-four hours.” Ms. Cunningham pointed her dagger eyes directly at Beatrice. “The authorities have also been notified, so I suggest you cooperate.”

The blood drained from Beatrice’s face. She bit her lower lip hard enough to keep her composure. Her meeting with Tony, the book she’d found, the keys in her pocket, her promise to Max—it all amounted to nothing. She was too late. Max had been found out.

Beatrice spent the next agonizing hour waiting to be called into Mr. Thompson’s office. One by one the other secretaries’ names were announced from the back. They each walked solemnly to his desk to be interviewed. They each returned looking bewildered. They didn’t dare talk to each other, but Beatrice caught ladies giving each other knowing looks. One of the Sisters Grim even turned in her seat to steal a glance at Beatrice, then quickly turned away, shaking her head.

She wanted to run, but her instincts told her if she made one move to the door she’d be stopped by armed guards. If they wanted to arrest her, she argued with herself, they could have done it the minute she walked into the building.

Still, she stayed in her seat until Ms. Cunningham called her name. The other secretaries couldn’t restrain themselves from turning to look as she stood up numbly and walked to Mr. Thompson’s office. She clenched her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. She might as well have been marching to the executioner.

Mr. Thompson was seated at his desk when she approached the door. He looked up at her and smiled warmly. She was amazed that even after everything she’d learned about him—his thieving, his lechery—she had to fight the compulsion to smile back at him.

“Please close the door,” he said pleasantly, without a trace of an accusation.

She obeyed.

“Come sit down.” He motioned to the chair. “I know this morning has been a bit unusual, but I want to assure you that we still consider you a part of the First Bank of Cleveland family. We simply need your help.”

“What is this all about?” She tentatively approached the desk.

“I was hoping you could tell me.” His face showed no trace of guilt or regret for the affairs or the robberies or anything he had done.

She had to play along. She lowered herself onto the edge of the seat and folded her hands in her lap, one tightly gripping the other. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have no idea what is going on.”

He studied her carefully as if she were the one with something to hide. He had no idea how much she knew. He seemed satisfied that she was thoroughly confused.

“Perhaps you don’t. It seems as though your friend Maxine has been breaking into the building at night.” He paused to gauge her reaction.

Beatrice gaped at him with shock scribbled over her face while her heart palpitated in her chest.

“We’ve also found evidence that she’s been sleeping here.”

“I don’t understand. Sleeping here?” Beatrice squeezed her hands together and fought to not look away. Judging from his expression, he was mistaking her panic for shock.

“Yes, in an abandoned office. Have you seen Max lately?” He leaned forward.

“No, sir. I haven’t seen her since she left her job. Her brother said she was on a long vacation.”

Someone had found her hiding place. Every morning she hid her suitcase in the broom closet. Did a janitor stumble upon it somehow? She searched her mind, cataloging all of the things she might have left on the eleventh floor. She decided it was safe to look down without drawing suspicion. There was nothing in her suitcase that had her name on it. She had made sure of that. The only things in there besides clothes were the files from Max’s desk. Her shorthand notes for her meeting with Tony and Max’s personnel file were safe in her purse, and so were the keys. Her heart rate slowed slightly when she realized Max’s key was still safe.

She looked up at him with the desperation of a deer on a highway. He smiled kindly again, and she knew she’d escaped detection.

“Well, as I say, we have evidence she’s been in the building. We believe she’s involved in a crime ring to defraud the bank. Now, we’ve notified the police and the FBI, and we’d like your cooperation in their investigation.”

Beatrice nodded. Tony had said the FBI was already investigating the bank but had only found dead ends. Now the feds had Max to blame. Mr. Thompson was going to frame her for the robberies. Max had the keys at one time. Max had been in the vault. Max had been investigating abandoned safe deposit boxes. It would be easy.

“I just can’t believe what you’re saying!” Beatrice let her eyes water for effect. She’d wanted to cry all morning anyway. “Max doesn’t seem like a thief.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised what people are capable of.” He looked deep into her eyes, and she fought the urge to shiver with revulsion.