Page 21 of Gone Before Goodbye
The pain never goes away. The pain never lets you go. You just learn to live with it.
Maggie forces herself to turn away, and when she does, she spots the cardboard box loaded with mail. She drops to her knees and thumbs through it. Junk mostly. Trace had set up automatic bill pay on most everything—utilities, rent, cable, internet, whatever—so it’s mostly ads from real estate agents (“Look What Sold in Your Neighborhood!”), discounts for food takeout, and furniture catalogues.
There is also a letter from Wells Fargo Bank.
Hmm. Maggie takes hold of it and lifts it into view. It’s thin—one page or two at the most—so it’s not a financial statement. She wonders whether she should open it, but of course, that’s why Trace had asked her to stop by whenever she was in town—to make sure everything was in order and copacetic. She doesn’t want to look as though she’s invading his privacy, but does she just ignore this?
It’s probably an ad for a credit card or something.
Except it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like something important.
She slits the envelope. There is only one sheet of paper.
It’s a bill for a safe deposit box.
Maggie’s first thought is Trace’s mother’s square-cut green-emerald ring. Karen’s emerald, she remembers, had been appraised for over twenty thousand dollars. It isn’t like Trace wore it. He’d have wanted to keep it safe. Where better?
But—check that—it’s a bill forthreesafe deposit boxes. Two of them are ten inches by ten inches. One is three feet by six feet.
A little much for a piece of jewelry.
She reads both the front and the back of the bill to see where the safe deposit boxes are kept. Oddly enough, it doesn’t say. She looks at the postmark—the bill was mailed two weeks ago from San Francisco. That’s probably the main headquarters for the bank. Is that where hekeeps the boxes? She doubts it but maybe. Had she ever heard Trace talk about San Francisco? Not that she can remember.
So now what?
Do the smart thing, she figures. Maggie snaps a photo of the bill, scrolls to Trace in contacts, and texts him the image with a quick note:
Want me to pay it or will you handle?
No reply. Then again, there hadn’t been one in a very long time.
Maggie stares at the bill from the bank for another moment before putting it back in the envelope and dropping it into the cardboard box. She then does a quick walk around the apartment, turns the faucets on and off, flushes the toilet, makes sure the windows are locked. Everything seems in place. She wonders about the keys to Trace’s safe deposit boxes. Does Trace keep them here, in a drawer somewhere?
Does it matter?
Her phone buzzes. She looks down and sees a text from Dr. Barlow.
Barlow: Pickup tomorrow at 8AM. Black Mercedes Maybach with tinted windows.
Maggie: No need. I’ll make my own way to your office.
Barlow: Better we drive you.
Maggie: You’re on Park Avenue and 51st. It’ll be a nice walk through the park.
Barlow: No.
Maggie: No?
There’s a delay and the three dancing dots seem to sputter before the next text pops up.
Barlow: Pickup tomorrow at 8AM. Black Mercedes Maybach with tinted windows.
She sighs. No reason to press it right now. She makes sure to turn off all the lights and heads back down.
Back on the street, Porkchop leans against his bike, doing the Zen patient-waiting thing again.
“Anything?” he asks.
