Chapter 4 - The Bank Key
We left Lawson’s office twenty minutes later, the brass key burning a hole in Eric’s pocket and the heavy leather ledger tucked securely inside my laptop bag. The afternoon sun was dipping low behind the brick facades of downtown Richmond, casting long, bruised shadows across the pavement.
"We shouldn't go to the bank," I said as we reached our cars parked in the alley. "If people are monitoring that safe deposit box, walking in there right after the funeral is practically putting a neon sign over our heads."
"Lawson said someone's been checking the visitor logs," Eric agreed, his hands gripping the steering wheel of his truck. He looked down at the red jacket still draped over the passenger seat. "Which means they don't have the key. If they had the key, they would have cleaned it out months ago."
"Or they're waiting for someone in our family to lead them to it," I countered, leaning against his window. "Think about it, Eric. Dad dies, we find the suit, we go to Lawson, and magically we get handed a key to a box that holds the ultimate leverage over a criminal syndicate. It's too neat. It's almost like Dad wanted us to trigger it."
Eric stared ahead through the windshield, his jaw tight. "Dad spent his whole life protecting us. Why would he risk us now?"
"Because maybe he didn't have a choice," a new voice said from the shadows of the brick wall beside us.
We both spun around.
A man in a charcoal trench coat stepped out from the alcove near the alley entrance. He wasn't old, maybe mid-forties, with sharp, clean-cut features and eyes that didn't match his casual posture. He wasn't holding a weapon, but his hands were tucked deep into his pockets with a practiced, balanced readiness.
"Sarah. Eric," the man said, nodding politely. "I’m sorry for your loss. Arthur was a good man. Obstinate, but good."
"Who are you?" I demanded, stepping defensively in front of Eric.
"My name is Miller," the man said, taking a slow step closer. "I worked with your father. Not at Meridian, and not in accounting. I was the one who made sure the syndicate kept their side of the bargain for all those years."
Eric’s hand slid instinctively toward his pocket where the brass key rested. "What do you want?"
"I want what's in box 412," Miller said, his tone entirely conversational, devoid of any threat or malice. "And before you ask—no, I'm not with the people trying to steal it. In fact, I'm the only reason you and your brother made it out of the cemetery without being followed by men who aren't nearly as polite as I am."
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Miller looked directly at Eric’s red jacket, a faint, humorless smile touching his lips. "Arthur told me if you wore the red one, you'd figure it out eventually. But he also said your sister would be the one smart enough to realize that walking into that bank right now is a suicide mission."
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