Ican’t sleep that night. I toss and turn restlessly, stalked by dark thoughts of what could be in David’s safety deposit box, why he wouldn’t have told me he had one, and why he’d go to the odd lengths of mailing me the key instead of just giving it to me.
Strangest of all, why there would be no note of explanation.
Like, what, I’m just supposed to figure it out? If Chris hadn’t clued me in, I don’t know how I would’ve identified it.
It’s all disturbingly mysterious. I’ve had quite enough mysteries to last me an entire lifetime, thank you very much.
Also scratching around the inside of my skull like hungry little rats are thoughts of Kage.
A debt collector? What exactly does that mean?
I’m not sure I want to know. Part of me does, but another part of me—the wiser part—is telling me to back away slowly.
He’s gone now, so it doesn’t matter anyway.
I heard his big SUV roar off into the night, watched its red taillights from the kitchen window until he turned a corner and the car went out of sight. It was then that I realized I don’t know where he came from or where he’s going, or why I should care in the first place.
I mean, I don’t care.
I think.
Getting through class Monday is sheer hell. I watch the clock like a bird of prey, counting down every second until I can leave and go to the bank.
There’s only one branch of Wells Fargo in town, so it’s not like I’ll have to drive all over the state looking for the right one. That’s not a problem.
The real problem lies in gaining access to the safety deposit box.
David and I weren’t legally married when he disappeared. We had the marriage license, but you also have to have a ceremony performed by an authorized person to make the marriage official.
As only his fiancée and not his wife, I won’t be allowed access unless I’m named on the account. Which I’m not, considering I would’ve had to be there with him and provide ID when the box rental agreement was signed.
At least according to Google.
Also complicating the situation is the lack of a death certificate.
Although David is presumed dead under state law because he’s been missing for five years, there’s no death certificate. I can’t petition the court to get one, either. Only a spouse, parent, or child can do that, and I’m not any of those things.
If I had a death certificate, I might be able to convince a sympathetic bank employee to allow me access, especially if I also produced our marriage license.
Even more especially if the person lived in town five years ago. Nobody talked about anything else for months.
I’d get sad sack bonus points, for sure.
Additionally, David didn’t have a will, so I’m not the executor of his estate, either…not that there was any estate to speak of. He had less than two thousand dollars in his checking account when he went missing. He didn’t own any property. The modest investments we made were in a brokerage account solely in my name. The plan was to add him as a beneficiary to all my accounts as soon as we got back from our honeymoon, but that never happened for obvious reasons.
So I’m not his wife, I’m not his family, and I’m not his executor. I’m pretty much not anything but shit out of luck.
I’m gonna try anyway.
At ten after four, I park in the bank parking lot, turn off the car, and stare at the double glass doors of the entrance, giving myself a pep talk. I don’t bank at Wells Fargo, so I don’t have an in with anyone, a friendly account manager or familiar teller I could try my luck with. I’m going in totally blind.
I hesitate just inside the doors, looking around to see if I recognize any of the tellers. There are three of them, but they aren’t people I know. The teller I decide to approach is a young redhead with a friendly smile.
I know I’m going to hell for hoping she might have a tragic romantic past and take pity on me when I have to trot out my woeful story.
“Good afternoon! How may I help you?”
“I need access to a safety deposit box, please.”
“Certainly. Let me just verify the signature card. What’s the name on the account?”
Smiling pleasantly, I say, “David Smith.”
“Just a moment, please.” She pecks away cheerfully at her computer keyboard. “Here it is. David Smith and Natalie Peterson.” She looks at me. “That’s you, I assume?”
My heart pounds. I’m on the account. How could I be on the account? Maybe Google was wrong. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I’ll just need to take a peek at your ID, please.”
I fumble through my purse, pull out my wallet, and hand over my driver’s license, hoping she won’t notice how badly my hands are shaking.
If she does, she doesn’t mention it. Her cheerful smile remains fixed firmly in place.
She holds my ID up against her computer screen, then nods. “Yep, that’s you all right! Gosh, I wish I had your hair. It even looks good in a DMV picture. My license picture makes me look like a corpse.”
The bank has a copy of my driver’s license.
David took my license out of my wallet and opened a safety deposit box without telling me.
What the actual fuck is going on?
When she hands my ID back to me, I ask casually, “My cousin wants to rent a box, too. What does she need to open one?”
“She just needs to bring in two forms of ID, sign the lease agreement, and pay the key deposit and first year’s rent. The smaller boxes start at fifty-five dollars annually.”
“She wants to have her mom be on the box lease, too. Does she need to come in personally, or can my cousin just put her mom’s name on the lease?”
The teller shakes her head. “Everyone who’s on the lease must be present at the time of execution, provide a signature, and present two forms of approved ID.”
So Google was right after all. The plot thickens.
“Great, I’ll let her know.”
Beaming, she says, “Here’s my card. Just tell her to ask for me when she comes in, and I’ll make sure she’s taken good care of. Come on around over here, and I’ll let you into the room where we keep the boxes.”
I stuff the card into my purse and follow the teller on the opposite side of the counter as she walks to one side of the lobby. She presses a button on her side of the counter. The door unlatches with a soft mechanical snick.
Grateful I put on extra-strength antiperspirant this morning, I follow her down a small corridor lined with employees’ offices, then we turn into another hallway.
“Here we go.”
She opens a door. We enter a wood-paneled antechamber. From a clip-on holder attached to her belt loop, she removes a set of keys. She unlocks another door, then we’re inside the safe deposit box facility.
It’s a long rectangular room, lined on three sides, from floor to ceiling, with metal boxes of various sizes. Against a bare wall on the other side of the room are an empty wooden table and an office chair on wheels.
The room is freezing cold, but that’s not why my teeth are chattering.
“Box number, please?”
I dig through my purse, find the key, and read off the numbers on the top. The teller walks toward the opposite side of the chamber. She stops in front of one of the boxes, inserts another key from her set, and pulls out a long wooden box from inside.
“Take as long as you need,” she says, placing the wooden box on the table. “When you’re finished, just hit that button, and I’ll come back in to lock up.”
She nods at a small red button mounted on a metal plate beside the main door. Then she leaves, taking the last of my composure with her.
I collapse onto the chair, drop my handbag onto the floor, and stare at the closed wooden box on the table in front of me. I shut my eyes and take a few deep breaths.
Cash? Gold? Diamonds? What do people keep in these secret boxes?
What did David keep?
“Only one way to find out,” I whisper.
I fit my silver key into the lock.
It takes three tries for me to get the lid open because my hands are shaking so badly. When I finally manage it, all the breath I’ve been holding comes out in one huge, loud gust.
The interior of the box is simple. Metal lined. Nondescript, like the key itself. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but what I find isn’t it.
There’s nothing but an envelope.
A single white business envelope, identical to the one the key was in.
If I find another key inside there, I’ll lose my shit.
When I pick up the envelope, however, I can tell there’s no key inside. It’s weighted differently. Light as air. I run my fingernail under the seal and slide out a single sheet of paper.
It’s a letter, folded in thirds.
Gulping, emotional, my whole body trembling, I unfold it and begin to read.
Nat,
I love you. First and always, remember that. You’re the only thing that has ever made my life worth living, and I thank God every day for you and your precious smile.
Tomorrow, we’ll be married. No matter what comes after that, it will be the best day of my life. Having you as my wife is a privilege I don’t deserve, but am so grateful for.
I know the years will bring many adventures, and I can’t wait to share them all with you. You inspire me in so many ways. Your beauty, heart, kindness, and talent have always overwhelmed me. I hope you know how much I support you.
How much I support your passion for your art.
You once told me you always find yourself in art. You said that whenever you get lost, you find yourself in your paintings.
My beautiful Natalie, I hope you’ll find me there, too.
Don’t ever stop painting or looking at the world with your unique artist’s eye. I hope our children will take after their brilliant mother. I hope our future will be as perfect as our lives together so far have been.
Most of all, I hope you know how much I love you. No man has ever loved a woman more.
With all my heart, for all eternity,
David
My vision blurred, I stare at the shaking piece of paper in my hand.
Then I burst into sobs and collapse facedown onto the table.
It’s a long time before I can pick myself up again.
On the way out of the bank, I ask the nice teller who helped me if I could have a current balance on our checking and savings accounts. Puzzled, she replied that we don’t have any accounts with them.
So David was only keeping the one secret, then. The one strange, unnecessary secret. A safety deposit box at a bank he didn’t patronize with a letter addressed to me that he could have simply handed to me and saved us all the trouble.
When I get home and call Sloane, she’s as confused as I am.
“I don’t get it. Why mail you the key?”
I’m lying on my back on the sofa. Mojo is draped over me like a blanket, his snout on my shins, wagging his plume of a tail in my face. I’m so emotionally exhausted, I feel like I could go to bed and sleep for ten years.
“Who knows?” I say dully, rubbing a fist in my eye. “More importantly, how do you think he convinced a bank employee to open the lease on the box without me being there? That seems sketchy.”
Her voice turns dry. “That man could convince anyone of anything. All people had to do was look into his eyes and they were toast.”
It’s true. He was an introvert, but he had a way about him. A way of charming you without you knowing it. A way of making you feel special, seen, as if he knew all your secrets but would never tell another soul.
“Are you gonna show the letter to the police?”
“Pfft. What for? Those investigators weren’t exactly the A-Team. And I still think that one scary lady cop thought I had something to do with his disappearance. Remember how she always side-eyed me and kept asking if I was sure there wasn’t anything I wasn’t telling them?”
“Yeah. She totally thought you buried him in the backyard.”
Depressed by the thought, I sigh. “There’s nothing in the letter that would help them, anyway. My real question is…why?”
“Why have a safety deposit box that contains nothing more than a letter?”
“Yeah.”
She thinks for a moment. “Well, I mean, after you and David were married, you probably would’ve had all kinds of important paperwork that could go in there. Marriage certificate, birth certificates, passports, whatever.”
“I guess so. I didn’t get my little safe until after.”
After he disappeared, that is. After my life ended. After my heart stopped beating for good.
A memory of Kage gazing intently at me from across the table at Michael’s reminds me that it wasn’t for good, after all. I didn’t think so, but there might be some life left in the old ticker yet.
Kage. Who are you?
“Yeah, that’s it,” says Sloane. “It was going to be a surprise.”
“David hated surprises. He didn’t even like it if he came around a corner in the house and found me standing there. He’d jump halfway out of his skin.”
“This surprise wasn’t for him, though. It was for you. And if anyone would think a safety deposit box would be a nice surprise gift for his new bride, it would’ve been David. He had the soul of an accountant.”
That makes me smile. “He really did.”
“Do you remember that time he got you a wallet for your birthday?”
“With the twenty-percent-off coupon for a foot massage inside? How could I forget?”
We laugh, then fall silent. After a moment, I say quietly, “Sloane?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“Do you think I’m broken?”
Her answer is firm. “No. I think you’re a badass bitch who went through some bullshit no one should ever have to go through. But it’s in the rearview mirror now. You’re gonna be just fine.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
Let’s hope she’s right. “Okay. If you say so, I believe you.”
“I’ve been telling you for years that you should listen to me, dummy. I’m way smarter than you.”
That makes me chuckle. “You’re not even a little bit smarter than me.”
“Am too.”
“Are not.”
Sounding smug, she shoots back, “Yes, I am, and I have proof.”
I mutter, “I can hardly wait to hear this.”
“Your Honor, I present to the court the following irrefutable evidence: the defendant’s vagina.”
I scoff. “How lovely. Do you have visual aids to accompany this exhibit?”
She breezes right past that. “Which the defendant has been pummeling nonstop with personal pleasure devices set to their high settings since she met one Kage…whatever his last name is. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I say crossly, “What’s your obsession with my vagina?”
Now she sounds even more smug. “That’s what I thought.”
“For your information, Counselor, I haven’t used any battery-operated devices since I met the man.”
“Hmm. Just your fingers, huh?”
“Be gone, evil witch.”
“Sorry, but you’re stuck with me.”
“Why does every phone call with you end with me wanting to find a tall building to jump off?”
She laughs. “That’s love, babe. If it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t real.”
It’s funny how an offhand remark can turn out in the future, like some horrible prophecy, to be such perfectly accurate truth.
