Chapter 5: Safe

Morning comes late to Portland. When Kyle stood in front of the secure storage company, the lights in the bakery across the street had just flickered on.

The door opened. An elderly man sat at the front desk, gray-haired, wearing reading glasses, looking at a newspaper. He glanced up at Kyle, then looked back down.

"Who are you here for?"

"Box 087."

"ID."

Kyle placed the key on the counter. The old man glanced at it, pulled out a registration card from the drawer, and pushed it over.

"Sign here."

Kyle signed. Not the name Kyle, but another name—the one he used two years ago.

The old man took the registration card back and pressed a button under the desk. The iron door behind him clicked, the lock popping open.

"Box 087," the old man said. "Haven't been here in two years."

Kyle looked at him.

"I've got a good memory." The old man smiled slightly. "Better than yours."

Kyle didn't respond. He walked through the hallway into the safe deposit room. Three walls were lined with box doors of various sizes, numbered from 001 to 200. Box 087 was in the middle of the third row.

He inserted the key and turned it.

Inside was just one envelope. Brown paper, no postmark.

Kyle took it out. The bottom right corner of the envelope had a crease—one he hadn't made. When he left it, the envelope had been flat.

Someone had touched it.

He put the envelope in his backpack, walked out of the safe deposit room, and passed the front desk where the old man had already lowered his head again, reading his newspaper.

Kyle didn't stop.

He stood on the street, pulled out the envelope from his backpack, and opened it.

Inside was a stack of papers. The first page was in Irene's handwriting, written in ballpoint pen, the letters tight together, as if the person writing was trembling.

"Kyle,

If you're reading this letter, it means I didn't make it to give you these things myself. That's okay. I knew it would end this way.

I've put everything here. Lab records, contracts, email screenshots. Enough to sue the Sterling Group into bankruptcy.

But you know I won't let you do that.

Not because I don't want to. It's because of Amy.

If these things get published, they'll come for her, and you can't protect her. No one can.

So I'm locking them here. Wait until one day, when she's grown up and can protect herself, then you can decide whether to open them.

I'm sorry.

Irene"

He remembered that night. She ran out, blonde hair in a mess, pressing the key into his hand.

"If I die, give those things to the media."

He folded the letter and tucked it into his left sleeve, against that drawing. The edge of the paper touched those burn scars, and his skin twitched.

The rest were lab records, A1 to A17. The photo for A7 was an ID badge showing a woman with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a slight smile at the corner of her mouth. The name field read: Irene Harper.

He glanced at "A7" on the photo, remembering the row of scars on Marcus's wrist.

Below A7 was a handwritten line:

"Day 13, A7 showing resistance response. All compounds ineffective in her system. Repeated testing, same results. Recorder: M.S."

Kyle pulled out that page, folded it twice before stuffing it in his pocket. The pocket was too shallow, leaving a corner exposed, so he pushed it in further. He stuffed the rest back in the envelope and into his backpack.

His phone vibrated. Marcus calling.

"Got it?"

"Got it."

"Come back. That car's back."

When Kyle arrived at the safe house, the door was open.

Marcus stood by the window, the curtain pulled open a crack. His face wasn't pale—it was gray.

"Downstairs?"

"Street corner. Dark gray Dodge, no plates."

Kyle walked to the window and looked through the crack. A car sat at the corner, dark gray, engine running. The windows had dark tint—couldn't see inside.

"How long has it been there?"

"Ten minutes after you left."

Kyle turned around, pulled out the USB drive Marcus had given him from his backpack, and placed it on the table.

"This is yours."

Marcus glanced at it. "What about your copy?"

Kyle pulled out the paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table. A7's photo, the line Marcus had written.

Marcus looked at the paper without speaking.

"When did you write this?"

"Day 13." Marcus's voice was soft. "Thirteen days after she came in, all the compounds stopped working on her. I wrote this report and submitted it. After they read it, they said—'continue testing.'"

"Continue testing?"

"Keep increasing the dosage. See how much she could take."

Kyle's hand pressed on the table, his knuckles losing color.

"I wrote a second report, saying if this continued she would die. They buried the report. I went to Vera."

"What did she say?"

"She said she'd talk to Father. Three days later, she told me Father agreed. Stop the testing."

"But she didn't go to your father?"

"She didn't." Marcus closed his eyes. "By the time I realized the testing was still continuing, it was too late. Irene's body gave out first. Not resistance failure—her body just couldn't take it anymore."

"So you let her go."

"I opened A7's door and told her to run. Out the back door, someone would be there. She ran out, but the person didn't show up."

"That person was me," Kyle said.

Marcus looked at him. "You were the pickup?"

"Yes. I got there. She didn't come."

"She came. But you left first."

Kyle pulled his hand back from the table and started touching his sleeve—where the drawing was. His fingers touched the edge of the paper, then dropped.

"Two years ago," Marcus said, "how long did you wait at that location?"

"Forty minutes."

"She was forty minutes late?"

"She wasn't late. I was early. After forty minutes, I got a call saying the mission was canceled. I left."

"Then she arrived?"

"Then she arrived, didn't find anyone, ran on her own. And then."

He didn't continue.

The room was quiet. The engine of the car downstairs hadn't stopped.

Marcus suddenly raised his voice. "Then why the fuck did you come back?"

Kyle looked at him. Marcus's chest was heaving, his lips bloodless. Then he pressed it down. He walked to the window and quickly pulled the curtain crack closed, the movement fast, as if covering something up.

"Who made that call?" he asked, his voice returning to that light, hoarse tone.

"My handler."

"Is he dead?"

"Yes."

"Who killed him?"

Kyle didn't answer. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. The car was still there.

"Does Vera know?" he asked.

"Know what?"

"That someone touched my safe deposit box."

Marcus looked at him. "Your box was touched?"

"There's a crease on the envelope that I didn't make."

"Was anything missing?"

"Nothing missing. The letter's there, the records are there. Someone opened it, looked, and put it back."

"Who would do that?"

Kyle didn't answer. He looked at the car downstairs.

"In the car, you asked me why Vera came now," he said.

"Right."

"Because she knew two years ago. She knew her father's name was on the list. She knew I had evidence. She knew where Amy was."

"She knew where you were?"

"She always knew." Kyle dropped the curtain. "She waited two years to find me, not because she needed me, but because she needed the timing."

"What timing?"

"That senator is running for reelection. If the list comes out now, maximum impact. Two years ago—it would've been buried. Now—it can't be buried."

"So you're a chess piece."

Kyle walked to the window and pulled back the crack again. The car's engine sound changed—someone was pressing the gas.

"Then why the fuck did you come back?"

Marcus's question still echoed in the room. Kyle didn't answer.

"We're all chess pieces," he said. "You, me, Vera. She's playing this game her own way."

"You have pieces too."

Kyle turned to look at him.

"You have two lists," Marcus said. "One is yours, one is mine. What are you going to do with them?"

Kyle didn't answer. He walked to the table, picked up the USB drive, and put it in his pocket.

"What are you doing?"

"Finding another place for it."

"You don't trust me?"

Kyle looked at him. "Do you trust your sister?"

Marcus didn't answer.

"She said two things and hung up," Kyle said. "First, her name's not on the list. Second, she won't answer why she locked you up. Then she hung up."

"She never answers questions she doesn't want to answer."

"Right." Kyle walked to the door. "So my list isn't staying here."

He pushed open the door. The hallway was quiet, the stairwell lights off.

"The car downstairs?"

"I know."

Kyle went downstairs. His footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

He reached the first floor and pushed open the back door. No one in the alley. He walked north along the alley, past three dumpsters and a closed iron door. The alley exit opened onto another street where sunlight streamed in, stretching his shadow long.

He stood at the alley entrance and waited a moment.

The car didn't follow.

He crossed the street and entered a coffee shop. A woman sat by the window in a dark jacket, a coffee cup in front of her with a lipstick mark on the rim, already smudged. In front of her was a half-eaten croissant, crumbs scattered on the table.

Kyle sat down across from her. The chair was lower than the table, so she had to tilt her head slightly to look at him.

"Lisa Lopez," he said.

Lisa looked at him. "You remember my name?"

"The Sterling Group security team. You handed me a tablet in Seattle."

"Right."

"What are you handing me now?"

Lisa pulled out an envelope from under the table and pushed it over. Brown paper, no postmark. Identical to the one from Kyle's safe deposit box.

"Ms. Sterling asked me to give this to you."

Kyle didn't touch the envelope.

"How did she know I'd come?"

"She didn't. This letter was prepared a week ago. She told me to wait in Portland. Wait for you to contact me."

"What if I didn't contact you?"

Lisa picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. "You would. Ms. Sterling said after you read Irene's letter, you'd definitely come find me."

Kyle looked at the envelope on the table.

"What's inside?"

"A copy of the list from your safe deposit box. Two years ago, after you stored the materials in box 087, someone made a copy. Ms. Sterling got this copy."

"Who made the copy?"

Lisa put down her coffee cup. "That old man at the front desk. Gray hair, reading glasses. He's worked for the Sterling Group for twenty-five years. The night you stored it, he made a copy and sent it to Seattle."

Kyle said nothing.

"Ms. Sterling said you can open it and look. After you're done, if you still want to go to Seattle."

"How does she know I'm going to Seattle?"

"She guessed." Lisa picked up her coffee cup. "She said you would."

Kyle picked up the envelope from the table.

"Tell her," he said, "in fourteen days, the list will be released."

"Which list?"

Kyle didn't answer. He stood up and walked toward the door.

"Kyle." Lisa called from behind him.

He stopped but didn't turn around.

"Ms. Sterling asked me to tell you, Amy is safe. The car outside Dorothy's house has been pulled."

Kyle pushed open the door and walked into the sunlight.