Page 84 of Lies He Told Me

That front door will open any minute now. Probably one of the employees will hold the door for Marcie while she lugs hundreds of pounds behind her in duffel bags, using those luggage carriers she brought.

As if on cue, the front door opens. A man in uniform, security, holds the door, pushes a kickdown to keep it open.

Here we go.

A woman rushes out. But not Marcie. A younger woman, college age. Then another person. Then another. People flooding out of the bank.

He takes a step forward, listens. An alarm of some kind coming from inside the bank?

“Marcie, what the hell did you do?” he whispers.

EIGHTY-NINE

THE ALARM SHRIEKS OUT as I sit on the bathroom toilet, my feet off the ground, knees touching my chin, holding the luggage carriers and the duffel bags up with me, straining to keep them above the bottom of the stall walls. It shouldn’t be long. Don’t be long.

The sounds of footfalls around me, outside the bathroom. The door to the bathroom pops open.

“Anyone inside? Anyone in here?”

A man’s voice. He’s probably looking down low for any feet in the stalls. He won’t see any.

“Bathroom is clear!”

I breathe out.

I make myself count to twenty. This is the rear of the bank. There’s nobody down in the vault. I was there alone, and now I’m not there. In the confusion and chaos, they probably figured I ran upstairs and got out with everyone else.

… eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

I don’t want these luggage carriers. Too heavy and too cumbersome. I can’t run with them. But I keep the duffelbags. This is all about the money. It’s the only thing keeping me alive. They’re a handful, collectively, but at least they’re light. I hope I can run with them.

I peek my head out into the hallway, the shrill of the alarm exponentially louder now that I’m not cocooned inside the bathroom.

I turn right and head for the emergency exit. It will sound an alarm, but now it won’t be noticed. Everyone’s heading out the front door.

I bang through the door and into the cool morning air, the bright sunlight.

My car is around on the other side, not far from the front entrance, parked by a side street. I am all alone here in the rear. I can hear the commotion outside, by the front of the bank, Springfield Avenue.

If the FBI has this place surrounded, or if Silas is positioned just so, I’ll be spotted. But I’m in the least visible part of the bank, the hardest part for them to cover. And they won’t be expecting this.

Anyway, screw it: this is my only shot.

I leave my car there in the lot.

I start running north, slipping through the hedges that border this end of the bank’s parking lot, scratching my face, but I get through, duffel bags in hand. Into another parking lot, but instead I turn and start running down an alley, heading east. I have to get clear first.

Get clear first, get away, lose them entirely.

And then figure out what to do next.

And keep the duffel bags. Somehow, in some way, this will be about the money.

NINETY

“WHERE IS SHE?” BLAIR shouts into his earpiece. “Do you see her?”

Blair creeps forward as a mass of people spill out of the bank, stopping briefly on the sidewalk outside, then moving farther down the sidewalk, away from the bank.

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