The Girls I've Been(10)

I have the scissors. I’ll use them if I have to.

A shiver runs down my neck at the thought. I’ve been running from what the girls all taught me for a long time. When Lee got me out that first year, I used to whisper their names to get to sleep. Rebecca. Samantha. Haley. Katie. Ashley.

I haven’t had to do that in a long time. I want to do it right now, but I force myself to focus. He’s saying something.

“Get in the corner.”

Wes plants himself in front of us in the corner as we obey, and Gray Cap’s mouth twitches at the show of protectiveness.

“Go through it,” he orders, and for a second I’m confused, but then Red Cap steps inside.

I watch as he searches the room and goes through the desk, tries to yank at the fake cabinets on the back wall that are sealed shut.

“Goddamn it,” he says. “Nothing.”

That’s when I realize they’re not trying to weapon-proof the room. They’re looking for something.

Give the mark something they want. First step of a con. It builds trust. Find out what they want and provide it.

Red Cap stalks out of the room and Gray Cap’s about to follow, so I tilt forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the hall, but it’s no use. I can’t see a thing.

“There’s gotta be a toolbox somewhere,” Red Cap mutters as the door closes behind them, and then there’s just the sound of whatever they’re using to block the door being dragged back into place.

I hurry over to the door and press my ear to it. Then: not voices, but sirens.

Sheriff’s here. Things are moving too fast. I need time and I don’t have it. I have to make some assumptions.

Assumption #1: The men out there aren’t just here for money, they’re here for something that only the manager has access to: the safe-deposit boxes. You need keys to get into those. Maybe even to access the vault they’re in.

Assumption #2: They’re trying to break into the manager’s office because they need keys.

The sirens are off now, but I can hear the distant sound of the bank phones ringing in the front. They’re trying to make contact again. Clock’s run out. Time to move, Nora. Make a damn plan.

“Casey.” I turn toward where she’s sitting in the corner, slumped over and cried out. “I want you to tell me everything you know about your dad.”

“My dad . . . What do you mean?”

“You said your mom dropped you off. Are they divorced?”

“Yeah, for three years now.”

“Do you like your dad?”

She frowns at me like it’s a ridiculous question, which tells me a lot. “Of course. I love him.”

“Is he worried about money? Who wanted the divorce, him or your mom?”

“Why does that matter?”

Iris shoots me a look, then smiles reassuringly at Casey. “Honey, the guys out there? They’re here for your dad. And they aren’t trying to get into the cash drawers or the safe. That’s . . . well, it’s weird. So if you know anything, overheard anything, we don’t want to get your dad in trouble. We just want to figure out what those guys want. The sooner they get what they want, the sooner we can go home.”

“Are we going to get home?” she asks, and she tries not to let the tears escape, but they do, and when she wipes them away, I give her the grace of pretending not to notice. She’s trying hard to be brave.

Kids like her, they’re not trained for bank robberies.

Kids like her, they’re trained for school shootings.

Run. Hide. Fight.

We all know the drill. We’ve all thought about it. We have to.

Who will you be, if it comes down to it? No shame in running. No judgment in hiding. Nothing but fear in fighting.

But here and now, there’s nowhere to run. No place to hide. So really, is there a choice?

Be a viper, baby. Always be ready to bite back. That’s how I was raised. But you never know if you can do it until it happens to you.

“Yes, we are getting home,” Iris says, and it sounds like she means it even though she’s just hoping. “But we need to work together. Is there anything you can think of?”

“Dad was in Gamblers Anonymous, but he stopped going. That’s when my mom filed for divorce.”

“Has anyone stopped by his place while you were there?” I ask. “Men looking for money? Has your dad gotten hurt lately? Any bruises? Broken bones?” Was this some sort of loan shark thing gone wrong? Is that why they aren’t wearing masks?

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Are there any nights he’s gone?”

“I only see him three times a week,” Casey says. “But . . . we used to do Tuesday through Thursday, and now we do weekend through Monday. I know he asked for the change, because my mom was upset about losing our weekends. She told my aunt that he’d probably found a new poker game.”

I frown, something twisting in my brain, and when I look up at Wes, I see his eyebrows are scrunched up, too.

“Doesn’t your dad run his poker game on Thursday?” I ask Wes.

Wes nods. “When my mom stays in Chico for the opera board meeting. He says it’s just friends, but you know him.”

“Oh yeah, I know him.” It trips out of my mouth, all vile and disgusted because I can’t help myself. Mayor Prentiss hates my guts, and the feeling is very mutual. He first hated me because Wes wasn’t supposed to be dating a girl with short hair who owns more flannel than his son. It was Not Done. The horror! When we broke up, I know he thought he’d won the battle I started with him, but he’s always been bad at predicting Wes’s goodness; he couldn’t do a thing when we stayed friends. “How much money do you think is getting tossed around those games?”