“She doesn’t trust one bank,” he’d said. “She rotates. Diversifies.”
Diversifies.
The word stayed with me.
Ian and I had already talked about the possibility that someone might split their valuables between different banks. It had seemed logical at the time. If something mattered enough, why keep it in one place?
But that had been theory. Vera made it real. She wasn’t protecting jewelry or bonds.
She was protecting… notebooks.
Pages filled with observations, names, dates, habits, and the quiet record of Willow Lake. Important to her and important enough to lock away in vaults scattered across multiple towns.
Which meant someone else could be doing the same.
My fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel.
If the heists were centered around safety deposit boxes, not money, not vault cash, not visible assets, then the question wasn’t which bank.
It was which box holders.
Ian had said it the night before, half serious and half warning. If only we could see who owned boxes at more than one of the robbed banks. Then he looked at me in that knowing way of his.
Don’t even think about it.
I wasn’t thinking about breaking into anything. I was thinking about confirmation.
If Vera used multiple banks, and those banks were among the ones hit, that could mean nothing. Or it could mean everything.
Was the FBI already looking at overlapping box holders? Had Stone considered that angle?
Sherman, proving to be my very dependable assistant, had mapped the radius. Willow Lake nearly centered in it. That wasn’t a coincidence.
If there was overlap, if a person or small group held boxes at several of the targeted banks, that would narrow the field fast.
The problem was obvious.
There was no public list. No community bulletin of “Citizens Who Own Multiple Safety Deposit Boxes.”
My dad wouldn’t part with case information, especially with the FBI involved, and Ian had been clear that talking to Stone would get us nowhere. He wouldn’t hand over private banking information. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t looking at it.
I lifted my gaze and let it drift across the street. Sadie’s Bakery & Café, sunlight catching its front window. A few people lingered outside, coffee cups in hand, conversation easy and unhurried.
And there he was… Stone.
Not moving quickly. Not scanning the street like something was wrong. Just crossing the sidewalk toward the bakery, focused, contained, as if his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
Had he already connected the dots? Had the FBI already noticed the overlap? Or were Ian and I circling something no one else had landed on yet?
I didn’t think twice about it. I maneuvered my truck out of one parking spot to another close to Sadie’s bakery and got out.
If he was already investigating that angle, I needed to know. Not names. Not records. Just whether the theory held. Okay, maybe I was hoping for more. Besides, crime didn’t get solved without asking questions.
Stone altered direction the moment he saw me and headed straight toward me instead of into Sadie’s. His gaze landed on my face, lingered, and then he gave a low chuckle.
“What did you get yourself into this time?”
“This time?” I asked, realizing he knew me better than I thought.
