Page 37 of Fated Love with You
“Good evening, Miss Jane,” Ryder says. “How was your drive?”
I refuse to answer.
“Have a seat,” he commands, and I don’t bother protesting that request.
A man in all gray moves to the other side of the table. He unpacks a massive black machine that takes up most of thesurface. Then he plugs it into the wall, powering its screen without a word.
Ryder pulls out a thick bundle of hundred-dollar bills and drops them in front of me.
“It’s rare when someone surprises me,” he says to me, as more boxes roll into the room. “I would’ve never guessed you had an ulterior motive at your crafts store job, especially after getting deported for the same crime in Canada. I’m impressed.”
I don’t say a word.
I just keep watching as the boxes continue to fill the room, as they block the windows and nearly touch the ceiling.
My counterfeit operation was a hobby, and Crafts & Notes provided me with the key to more than just the violins.
They sold the best paper for making counterfeit, but I swore that I’d only make enough to get away from Nate.
The authorities in America wouldn’t take too kindly to discovering that I hadn’t learned my lesson from years ago, so I only made enough to cover a few thousand dollars.
I swore I’d never do it again.
I’d never be anywhere near it again…
“Pick those up for me,” Ryder says, pointing to the stack. “Tell me which ones are real.”
Obliging, I flip through the stack slowly, letting my thumb touch the edge of each one. Then I flip them over and flip through them slower, not even needing to run through the usual list of fifty tests.
“They’re all fake,” I say.
“You barely checked them, Miss Jane…”
“There’s no reason to check them any further.” I set them down. “They’re not real.”
Ryder stares at me for several moments before signaling to the Grey Man.
The man collects the stack and feeds them into the machine.
It whirs and beeps, flipping the bills backward and forward, and then it flashes red.
For counterfeit.
“Very good,” Ryder says, looking at his watch. “Mr. Johnson here will verify your work when you’re done checking the rest.”
“The rest?”
“Yes, Miss Jane.” He gestures to the boxes that have damn near filled the entire room at this point. “Keep the real ones on the right side of the beam, and the fake ones on the left.”
“Checking this many—assuming that some actually are viable—would take me at least three days. Minimum.”
“Good. There’s a bedroom suite behind the exit door,” he says. “I’d prefer it if you only slept when you absolutely have to. I have a deadline to meet, and three days sounds decent enough, so you can get started now.”
“No.”
The entire room instantly stills.
The men stop pushing boxes mid-stroll. Mr. Johnson’s jaw unhinges, but it never hits the floor.
