His office still reeks of orchids. Today he's warmer, more relaxed. The grieving widow act has worked. He sees a vulnerable woman with complicated assets, someone he can guide. Someone profitable.
"I've been thinking about our last conversation," I say, settling into the leather chair, crossing my legs in a way that makes his eyes follow the movement. "About secure storage options. How exactly do these vault protocols work?"
He leans back, entering professor mode. His fingers trace the rim of his coffee cup as he watches me, and something in the gesture reminds me of Julian right before he'd grab my wrist too tight. Men like Reyes love explaining things to women who look suitably impressed. I arrange my face into careful interest while he talks about access systems, jurisdiction variations, authentication layers.
"The coding structure is quite elegant," Reyes explains, warming to his subject. "For maximum security, facilities use alphanumeric combinations. Typically a jurisdiction prefix, two letters identifying the facility location. Then a date marker,usually when the account was opened or assets deposited. Finally, the actual access string."
My heart stops. Then starts again, hammering so hard I'm sure he can see my pulse jumping in my throat. I take a sip of water to hide my reaction, but my hand trembles slightly. Reyes notices, his eyes track the movement with satisfaction, mistaking my shock for feminine nerves.
VA-11.03.18-7K4X9.
I've stared at Julian's ring inscription for six months. Run it through every cipher, every pattern. And Reyes just decoded it in a single breath.
"So the prefix tells you where," I say, voice steady despite my racing pulse. I lean forward slightly, knowing how the silk blouse moves when I do. His eyes drop to my chest for a fraction of a second. "The date anchors the account. And the final string is the key."
"Precisely." Reyes smiles, pleased with his student. "The beauty is in the simplicity. Three components creating virtually unbreakable security."
VA. A jurisdiction code. Virginia? Vermont? Or something else entirely, a code that might lead back to Miami's underground. The thought makes my stomach twist. What if Julian's vault connects to Gabriel's world? The Delgados are connected to the Rosettis. I learned that yesterday when Logan visited, saw how the name made Gabriel tense. What if I've been sleeping in the bed of someone whose family name is written in Julian's records?
The possibility sits like a stone in my stomach. The Rosettis at Il Lusso, where Julian would get summoned like it was church. Gabriel's sister with a Rosetti in Chicago. The circles overlapping, tightening.
11.03.18. November 3rd, 2018. Whatever Julian deposited that day. 7K4X9, the access string that opens it all.
"You're very patient with my questions," I say, touching his hand briefly where it rests on the desk. The contact makes my skin crawl, but I hold it for two seconds. "Julian never explained any of this to me."
"Your husband wanted to protect you from ugly realities," Reyes says, turning his hand to capture mine. His palm is damp. "But a woman like you… you're stronger than he realized, aren't you?"
I extract my hand carefully, smiling. "I'm learning to be."
Reyes schedules our next meeting. Two weeks out. When he walks me to the door, his hand finds the small of my back, pressing in a way that makes me want to shower. I smile and don't flinch.
In the elevator, I lean against the mirrored wall and close my eyes, fingers pressing against Julian's ring through the fabric. The code has structure now. Structure leads to location. Location leads to the vault. The vault leads to freedom or a bullet. But at least I'm moving forward.
My hands shake as I drive back to Homestead. But my body is doing something else, that sickness I confessed to Gabriel in the dark. I've been hunted by professionals and part of me is alive with it, crackling with the proximity to danger. I hate this about myself, this twisted wiring that makes me wet when I should be terrified.
I can't go to the rectory like this. Can't walk through Gabriel's door vibrating with adrenaline and the taste of Julian's world still coating my tongue like copper. I need to breathe. To shed Miami-Sera before I can be the woman who reaches for his hand through morning coffee.
The church rises against the darkening sky, and my body steers toward it without permission. Just like the confessional, like the diner. I go where I need to be.
It's past nine. The building should be locked, but the side door stands open. Gabriel doing his evening rounds, checking candles, securing windows, the routine I've memorized from watching him.
I step inside.
The nave is dark except for the sanctuary lamp and a few dying candles. The familiar scent of incense mixes with the soap smell that clings to him, filling the space with our combined presence. Shadows pool between the pews. The silence isn't empty but full, weighted with every confession and transgression these walls have witnessed.
He's near the altar, back to me, checking something in the sacristy doorway. The altar where he pressed against me, where everything almost happened. My body remembers his weight, his heat, the devastating moment when he pulled back, unable to cross that final line.
He turns. Sees me.
I'm still in my Miami armor. Silk blouse, knee-length skirt, the earrings from my old life. I look like the woman from the gala, not the one from his kitchen. His eyes track the difference, filing away what it means, that sweep I recognize from the parking lot, checking for injuries, fear, the tells of immediate danger.
"How was the gallery?" he asks.
The lie sits between us like something rotten.
"I didn't go to a gallery."
The confession falls out unplanned. I've maintained this partition for weeks, lied to everyone. But I'm standing in this dark church where we've traded our worst truths, and I'm tired. Bone tired. Soul tired. The exhaustion of maintaining two versions of myself finally too heavy to carry.
