Dear Mr. Buchanan,
I’m grateful for your soon-to-be-deposited donation of $15,000 into my campaign fund in exchange for my continued efforts to restrict migration to New York and hasten the rezoning of Harlem properties. This money will ensure the swift removal of Negroes and other undesirables from our schools and neighborhoods and pave the way for white-only redevelopment.
Thank you for your donation, critical to the success of our shared vision for the city! Rest assured, all business will be handled discreetly.
Sincerely,
A. Mitchell Palmer
“This is it,” I whispered. Here, on paper, was what Buchanan’s half of the Blue House payout was funding. “This is the proof we need. It’ll ruin his reputation in the city.”
Zihan leaned in, reading over my shoulder.
“Take this. There’s sure to be more inside the rest of the papers.” I handed Zihan the letter and the other documents, along with the loot from the first safe. “Head back to Gatsby’s now and make sure it gets to Daisy or Jay. I’ll finish clearing the last safe.”
“And leave you here?” Zihan asked, frowning. “What if Cannon—”
“I’ll be right behind you. Go, Zihan. We can’t risk both of us getting caught.”
He hesitated but nodded, clutching the papers tightly before slipping out of the room. I turned back to the safe, taking a steadying breath. There was still work to do.
The final safe had to hold the promised $15,000 donation. That was the payoff, the jackpot. Taking it would make sure that Buchanan couldn’t use it to cause any more trouble.
I went to Buchanan’s bedroom, and I found the main vent just under a leg of his king-size bed. I opened the vent and climbed inside, sliding myself along the ice-cold metal.
I moved down the tunnel, and turned, and turned again. I found myself in the same place. I passed the same room three separate times, but I couldn’t find anything. I started to feel claustrophobic, with all this changing direction horizontally in a tight space.
So, finally, I gave up, and when I came out, it was to Buchanan’s study. There was a large red carpet, a big wooden desk, and three walls that opened to a larger drawing room.
A person appeared from around the corner, and I almost had aheart attack before I noticed it was Jay.
“Jay? What are you doing here? You were supposed to be watching Buchanan,” I said, surprised.
Jay watched me as I gathered my bearings. I was waiting for my vision to readjust itself from being sequestered in the vents, but he was growing impatient. “You were taking so long I got worried. But never mind that, are you ready to go?” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the doors. “We have to stop now.”
“I couldn’t find the third safe. There wasn’t one in the bedroom, where Daisy had said to look. I turned four different directions in that vent and I saw no safe!”
“We don’t need it. We just need to go.” He seemed all fidgety, like he had to make sure the timing was right for some other reason than to save ourselves.
And the nervousness was not lost on me.
I had to get a question off my chest before we left. “Why did Artie say you had something to do with the fire?”
“Now, Nick? Not now.”
“Well, did you?” What if it was all true? What if I had to fight my lover, at the end of all of this? What if he was setting me up and his agreement to all of this was a trap?
“I did not start it myself,” he said, and the ambiguous answer sucked all noise from the air.
“But... you knew about it?”
“Of course he knew about it,” a voice said.
Jay and I turned to find Charlie and Tom Buchanan standing inthe drawing room just outside the study. They were still as statues and seemed completely unsurprised to see us.
“Oh, Lying Nick, the letterwasfrom you,” Charlie said, laughing.
“Bravo,” Buchanan said with a chuckle. “I laud your bravery. But you’re a lot stupider than I thought, getting caught like this.” He looked at Jay. “And you. You are a traitor to your father’s good name.”
