Page 88 of The Lies We Steal

“Do you want the safe open or not?” Her eyes turn back to me, arching a thick eyebrow, everything about her presence tells me she’s in work mode and she needs to focus.

“Touché.”

I hand her the things she asked for, leaning on the wall next to the safe looking down at her as she begins to play with the dial. Spinning it left a few times, then right. Feeling the gears inside shift and click into place.

Placing the stethoscope in both ears, placing the chest piece right above the dial. From here, I witness what could only be called pure genius. The way she sticks her tongue out, biting down on it absent-mindedly as she listens for what she needs from the machine.

Then she begins writing down numbers, creating graphs on the paper, plunging them into formulas and my mind is twisted with misunderstanding. In movies, they just twist the dial with the stethoscope listening to the right ticks. Apparently that’s not all you have to do in order to get the correct combination.

Taking the earpieces out and laying them on the ground as she scribbles numbers down on the page, doing math most would need calculators for in her head.

“Where’d you learn how to do this?” I ask, curious how one gets into the hobby of stealing.

“Shouldn’t you already know? You read my criminal record, I’d assume you read other things about me.”

I roll my eyes, “Sorry, there wasn’t a section in your file about hobbies. Well, minus your sophomore team swimming picture.” I crack a small smile in the darkness, catching a glimpse of her tinted cheeks.

“My dad,” She breathes, scratching out a set of numbers and rewriting them, “He was in and out of jail my entire life, but when he was home he taught me the skills of the trade. Pickpocketing, safe cracking, card counting, if it involved quick cash he showed me.”

“Odd bonding technique.” I note, her fingers starting to try different combinations in the lock. I imagined a smaller version of Briar, sitting in the floor of her house playing with locks and stealing wallets.

We were proof that survival had little to do with money and everything to do with the environment where you grow up.

“Well not all of us can bond with our parents over winters in the Swiss Alps and summers in Prague.”

I click my tongue, “Yup, that’s me,” I say as I flex my fists, stretching out my fingers, “Spoiled, arrogant, rich boy with the entire world at his feet. What more could I want in life?”

She looks up at me, pausing her work, “You expect me to believe that your life hasn’t been golden platters and butlers? Don’t stand there and pretend you had it rough. You have no idea what it was like growing up without enough money to keep the lights on, worried about when you’d be able to eat again, or when the next time the police would bang on your door wanting to know where your dad was. You’re no better than any of those people out there, you and your friends just happen to be more unhinged than the rest.”

“You wanna sit here and argue about whose life is sadder? Whose childhood was worse? You think you’re the only one who has been through shit? If it makes you feel better to think all those things about me, go ahead. I won’t stop you.” I retort.

By all accounts she’s right.

I don’t know what it’s like to be poor.

I have always had money, I’ve always had food in the house when I was hungry. I had the basic necessities of life and then some.

But what she doesn’t know, what she doesn’t deserve to know with her snotty, woe is me attitude, is that when I was a kid I begged to trade all the money I had for parents who loved me. For a family who cared. I would have rather been starved and loved, than starving for love.

Then you grow up and you realize you work with the cards you are dealt. You shut the fuck up and you move forward because all the pleading, all the praying won’t get you anywhere. Sometimes you are just the bad apple that didn’t fall far from the tree.

I wasn’t going to argue with her.

It wasn’t worth it. There are just some things people will never understand.

We don’t talk again, just letting the noise of the safe twisting fill the void. Not until she finally puts in the right order of numbers, pulling the door open with a loud groan.

“Piece of cake.” She whispers, patting herself on the back. Which I’m glad she did because I wouldn’t be doing it for her.

I squat down, looking inside hoping something in here will give me the information I need. Will give us what we need.

Grabbing the phone and manila envelope out of the safe, walking it to his desk so I can lay them down. My first action is turning the phone on, waiting for the white apple to go away before a basic lock screen appears.

I’m not surprised to find there is a password protecting the information inside. I grind my teeth, “What was the combination to the safe?” I ask Briar.

“5749.”

Tapping the numbers out on the phone only to have it vibrate and tell me it’s the wrong one. Knowing I’m not going to get anything out of it but more frustration, I set it down opening the envelope instead.

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