My senses are on high alert as we enter my father’s office and quietly close the door behind us. Thankfully, there are no cameras located inside the house, but that doesn’t ease my anxiety whatsoever, especially not with the conversation we overheard earlier. My anger resurfaces as I move toward the bookcase at the far end of the wall. I remove the painting hanging in the center of the wall to reveal my father’s safe, but when I enter his date of birth, nothing happens.
“Shit, he changed the code,” I hiss, my adrenaline spiking.
“Can you think of any other number sequences he might use?” Benson asks.
I rack my brain trying to think, but nothing comes to mind. I try my mother’s birthday and their wedding anniversary, but neither works. Then I try my birthday, but that doesn’t work either.
Bile rises in my throat as panic sets in. Was this all for nothing?
Benson rubs my back. “Take a breath. You got this.”
Benson’s calm voice soothes my nerves. I close my eyes, inhaling a few calming breaths, running through a dozen sequences he might use. He would use something he could easily remember. A combination of numbers tied specifically to him and no one else. A combination of numbers he thinks only heknows.
I punch each number slowly, and when I enter the last one, the locking mechanism clicks and the door opens.
“Holy shit, you did it. What was it?”
“Election day,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
“Of course. Egotistical bastard.” Benson opens the door further, revealing several large stacks of cash, multiple sealed envelopes, and other documents.
“Looks like about fifty grand in here,” he remarks, counting the stacks, then shuffling the cash aside before picking up the few documents on the bottom shelf. He passes through each one. “Property deeds, insurance policies. Christ, how many properties does he own?”
“Four that I know of.”
“There are at least a dozen here, including a villa in the Caymans.”
“That one must be new.”
I flip through several manila envelopes labeled birth certificates, marriage licenses, car titles, and boat titles.
“Bingo,” Benson says, pocketing three jump drives. “These are bound to have what we are looking for.”
I freeze when I read the manila envelope in my hand, the rest scattering to the floor at my feet.
“What? What is it?” Benson asks, concern etched in his voice as he looks over my shoulder.
I can’t speak. I don’t think I’m even breathing when Benson pulls it from my hand to read for himself.
“Oh fuck,” he curses, tucking it under his arm. Before I can even wrap my head around anything, Benson is tucking everything back into the safe. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Let me see it,” I demand, reaching for the envelope.
“No, not here. We’ve already been here too long.”
“Benson, I—please, I need to know.”
He cups my cheeks, holding my gaze. “And you will, but right now, we need to go.”
He grabs my hands and leads me from the office, and we hightail it to the garage.
“I’ll drive,” he says, opening the passenger door for me. My legs feel wooden as I settle into the seat. When he folds his body into the driver’s seat, he reaches over, palming my thigh. “Hey, look at me.”
My gaze shifts to his, anxiety and anger warring in my heart and mind.
“You’re okay,” he reassures me gently.
Tears burn my eyes.
