Flame (Steel Brothers Saga 20)

Doesn’t matter, really. It’s done now.

A gray-haired gentleman approaches me then, his hand out. “Mr. Steel, I apologize for the wait. I’m Michael Keats, the branch manager. I can help you with your safe-deposit box.”

“Perhaps you can help these ladies as well,” I say. “Rory and Callie Pike are here to open a box too.”

“Of course. Only one box owner can be in the room at a time.”

“I’m happy to let the ladies go first,” I say.

“Oh, no,” Callie says hastily. “You were here first.”

“I don’t mind.”

“We insist,” Rory adds. “We’ll just wait here. Patiently.”

Her tone doesn’t indicate patience. It indicates—well, I don’t know Rory that well, but she sounds pretty on edge.

I follow Mr. Keats behind the tellers to a back room.

He unlocks the door. “I’ll need your key, Mr. Steel. And your ID.”

I stop my mouth from dropping open. An ID? Of course I’ll need an ID. The problem? This isn’t my box. Of course, he already knows my name, so—

I pull out my wallet, remove my driver’s license, and hand it to him.

He scans it quickly. “Very good. Now if you’ll follow me.”

I try to remain calm. This box is in my name. My freaking name. Who the hell rented it? Opened it? Put the key in my bathroom?

“Your key?” Keats says.

I hand it to him.

“Box 451. Good.” He finds the bank’s key and inserts each into the lock. “The keys need to be turned at the same time.” He does so and opens the box, pulls it out, and sets it on a table, where a few chairs are set up. “Here you go. Take your time.”

I nod. I can’t take too much time because Callie and Rory are waiting. Why do they have a safe-deposit box in Denver, anyway? Seems odd.

No odder than my having one I didn’t even know about, I guess.

I stare at the long box. What’s inside? Documents? Jewels? Money?

Nothing?

It’s not a large box. About a foot long, six inches wide, four inches tall, and I’m estimating. Big enough to hold some documents. Not much cash, though, unless it’s a lot of large bills. Jewelry, yes.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say out loud.

The fact of the matter is, I’m stalling. Callie and Rory are waiting outside to come in here and open their own box. I’m being rude.

I lift the lid.

No cash. No jewels. No piles of documents.

Inside is an envelope. One white letter-sized envelope. My name isn’t on it. Nothing is written on it. But someone went to a lot of trouble to give me this key, so I’m damned well opening this envelope. I pick it up. It’s heavy, and there’s a small object inside, fallen to the corner.

I slide my finger under the flap, and—

“Ouch!” I stick my finger in my mouth.

Damned paper cuts. Whoever put this here should have left a letter opener.

Then I stop. And I freeze.

What if it’s got white powder in it? Anthrax? Like the envelopes that sometimes get delivered to politicians’ offices?

“For God’s sake, Donny, you’re being an idiot,” I say, again to no one.

Still, I stuff the envelope into my pocket. No need to open it yet. If it contains anthrax or something else deadly, I’m going to be prepared. I check the box once more to make sure nothing else is hidden. I even bang it on the table, thinking I’ll loosen any secret compartment.

Nope.

“All right, then.” Damn, I’ve really got to stop talking to myself.

I leave the room. The manager is standing outside the door.

“Are you finished, Mr. Steel?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Good enough.”

I look around, but Callie and her sister are nowhere in sight. “Where are the two women who were waiting?”

“They left, sir.”

“Oh? Why?”

“That’s not for me to say.”

“Of course not. Thank you for your help, and have a good day.”

“You too, Mr. Steel.”

I head out of the bank, darting my head in each direction. Callie’s gone.

She couldn’t have gone far. We came to Denver together. I grab my phone and give her a call.

It rings once. Twice. Up to seven times, and just when I’m sure it’s going to voicemail, I get a breathless, “Hi, Donny.”

“Hey, baby. Where’d you go?”

“Rory and I are at the coffee shop across the street. You can probably see us through the window.”

I gaze across the street. Sure enough, Callie and Rory sit at a table.

“I’ll be right there.” I end the call.

Traffic is far from light, so it takes me nearly five minutes just to get a green light to cross on. I walk inside and toward Callie and Rory’s table.

Neither of them looks happy.

I help myself to the chair next to Callie. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“We’re fine,” Callie says. “We don’t have the key to our box, so the bank has to call a locksmith, which means we wait until tomorrow.”

“Where’s your key?”

“I lost it,” Rory says. “You know, ditzy Rory.”