Page 57 of Freedom’s Inferno

The teller nodded stiffly, still eyeing the pile of rubbish on the marble like it might explode.

Charlie leaned his elbows on the counter, unbothered. I envied that about him, how he could be so at ease under scrutiny. “Is there a problem?”

The teller’s eyes narrowed. “I see.” He adjusted his tie. “Do you have identification, Mrs. Blackwell?”

“Of course.” I retrieved my ID with false confidence, sliding it across the counter while cutting Charlie a vicious glare.

The teller inspected my license, glanced at me, then back at the photo. His mouth creased with distaste, his nose turned up. “Wait here, please,” he said, before disappearing into an office behind him.

“Do you think he’s gonna call security?” Charlie asked, voice low.

“Only if he’s smart.”

The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “You are a murderer.”

“And you look like you stole that shirt off a farmer’s corpse,” I said, sweetly.

Before he could respond, a second banker appeared. He was older, with the stiff posture of someone who slept in a tie. He offered a curt nod. “Mrs. Blackwell. Mr. Sterling. Right this way, please.”

We followed him through a side door into a long corridor, the air cool and dry, walls lined with numbered boxes.

Charlie grinned behind his back like he’d won something, and I rolled my eyes, trying not to smile. I didn’t want to encourage him.

Our guide stopped in front of the box marked 394, and the sight of it made something tighten low in my stomach. The man handed me the key, and it felt heavier than it should, weighted with our lives.

Charlie stood close enough that I could feel the warmth of him at my shoulder, silent but steady.

The banker cleared his throat. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be right outside that door when you’ve finished.” Then, with a nod that was more like dismissal than courtesy, he turned and walked out.

Silence fell, dense and suffocating.

I turned the key in the lock with an exhale, the metallic click echoing, sharp and final. For a moment I couldn’t move; every hour of lost sleep pressed down on me at once.

I reached for the lid and my fingers trembled despite myself. The box opened with a faint sigh, unremarkable at first glance. A few items were arranged inside, but no cash or ledger.

On top lay a passport. I picked it up, and my stomach turned cold before I opened it. The photo staring back at me was Richard’s, his familiar smirk, his sandy blonde hair, those piercing blue eyes… but the name printed beneath it read Edward McKenney. I couldn’t breathe.

Below it sat a matching driver’s license with the same alias. Both were pristine, fresh, the plastic still sharp. He’d been ready to shed his name, start over, and vanish, leaving us to drown in his wake.

“Son of a bitch,” Charlie hissed, taking the passport from my fingers and staring at it incredulously. “That mother fucker was gonna take that money and run, and leave us dangling on the hook.”

“Of course he was.” My words came out flat, numb.

I should’ve seen it coming—the fake passport, the quiet contingency plan, the escape route hidden in plain sight. After everything he’d done to me, all the ways he’d proven exactly who he was, I still hadn’t imagined he’d run. That kind of faith, even in a monster, felt like its own brand of stupidity, and I hated myself for still being capable of it. For all the hate I’d nursed for Richard, for all the ways I’d already buried him in my mind, this discovery still landed like betrayal layered on top of betrayal.

I could tell Charlie struggled as much as I did, the way he seethed beside me, staring at that passport like it might turn into something less damning.

Something small and cream colored peeked out from beneath the fake ID. It looked strangely familiar. I picked it up, the gold lettering glinting under the fluorescent light, and my lips parted in recognition.

Whitmore’s Clockworks

Precision Timekeeping ⧫ Antique Restoration ⧫ Custom Designs

A business card for the clock shop, the same one that Charlie had found in Richard’s dress slacks. My heart gave a small, painful lurch. I turned it over, half expecting to see nothing. Instead, Richard’s sharp handwriting slashed across the back: 3-1-9-4. I didn’t know if the numbers were a combination, a date, or something else altogether, but it didn’t feel like a coincidence.

“What’s that?” Charlie asked, tossing the passport back into the box. His face bunched in thought.

I handed him the card. “The same card from before…”