Chapter 17: Abigail Whitcroft

The butler met us at the Stamford Trust with his hat in his hands.

My mother was still missing.

He had called every clinic in the county, and none had a Mrs. Whitcroft on its list.

I could not think about it yet, so I walked inside.

"The box has two signers, miss," he said. "Mr. Whitcroft, and me."

"Mrs. Whitcroft added me the year she started the search. She said I'd need a key someday."

Dot looked at him with her mouth open. "Sir, you are the best man in this entire state."

He bowed his head a quarter inch.

Anson stood behind me with his hand flat on my back, and I could feel the heat of it through my coat.

All night I had felt it in other places.

I put that away for later, because the bank manager was coming across the marble floor with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Miss Whitcroft," he said. "What a pleasure. Mr. Whitcroft called to say you might visit."

"Did he."

"He asked me to remind you that the account holder should be present for any withdrawal."

"I'm not making a withdrawal," I said. "I'm opening a box."

"Of course."

He walked us to the vault very slowly, and he made a phone call on the way that he thought I couldn't see.

Through the glass of the front door, I saw a black town car pull to the curb.

Lawrence's driver got out and leaned on the hood with his arms crossed.

"We have about ten minutes," Anson said in my ear.

"Then it will take eight."

Box 114 sat low in the wall, behind a steel door.

The butler turned his key.

I turned mine.

The little drawer slid out heavy and cold, and the manager left us alone with it at last.

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