Then
Wednesday, July 8
Brooklyn, New York
I closed the brownstone’s front door. Engaged the deadbolt and the chain.
Through the foyer. Into the living room. Alone in here, the place felt even larger, even richer. High ceilings. Ornate medallions around modern lights. Velvet and leather sofas. Windows that curved out, like beer guts spilling over tightened belts.
A smell of orange oil and lemongrass. Glossy parquet floors. The cleaners had come yesterday, no mix-up there. Good.
I went straight up the stairs, then stopped two from the top, jumping at a noise. My phone.
A text from Mary.
Give me a call, ok? We can work it out.
Christ, it was like the girl had radar trained to notice anytime I was in her house.
I took another two steps, leaving the first floor behind me.
Forget Mary. Forget guilt. This was big-time, the kind of score I’d never even thought to hope for. This wasn’t a Moncler coat, a pair of designer shoes. This was life-changing money.
I beelined down the hallway. Past George’s office. Past Alex’s room. Hugging the left side of the wall so a nanny cam, if there was one, couldn’t catch my movements.
And then, at last, the bedroom—her bedroom.
No one here. No chance. Still, I gave a cursory glance to the bathroom and walk-in closet.
No one hiding, no one watching. Just me here. Go time.
I surveyed the print—George had slid it aside when he’d opened the safe in front of me that morning, but this could take some time. A hand on each side, careful not to mess it up, I took it off the wall, popped it onto the neatly made bed.
I’d done a little research. Most wall safes gave you five attempts before locking you out completely. Some more, some fewer. Either way, I figured I had three solid guesses at the code before I was cut off. If I used all three and it still didn’t open, I wasn’t sure what to do. I was the new person in George’s life. If he came home to a locked-out safe, I’d definitely be a suspect. If I didn’t crack it this morning, there was no reason I couldn’t simply slip the print back onto the wall, steal away, and continue to work on George.
I knew enough to narrow the combination down. The first digit was a one, the second, unknown but lower on the keypad, followed by two-three-one and a final unknown digit.
I pulled out the slip of paper I’d jotted it all out on last night.
1_ 2 3 1 _
George’s birthday was 10-23-83. I’d gleaned that from Mary, and the 1-0-2-3 could align with what I’d seen, even though the last two didn’t. It’s possible he used his own birthday and added another number of some importance, but I had a feeling he was too smart to put the month and date of his birth in the combination.
I also knew from Mary that they’d moved into the brownstone right before they were married, which made me reason that little Alex’s birthday wouldn’t factor in.
Besides, this was George’s domain, his side of the bed. He was narcissistic, for sure, but he coveted Mary. She was his prize.
I looked down at my first guess, jotted down on the paper.
1-0-2-3-1-8
A 10 to nod to their wedding anniversary, September 10, something I’d learned on my own, sifting through the New York Times. Followed by the day of George’s birthday. Mary’s at the end.
I took a deep breath, then punched it in.
The beep was instant and all wrong. Low when it should have been high. Two dashes appeared on the digital pad, and even though I grabbed the handle, it was clear that the thing was still locked.
My next guess was in the same vein, just Mary’s birthday and the wedding date transposed.
1-8-2-3-1-0
I hit each number carefully but quickly.
Another low-toned beep. Another two dashes.
Fuck.
I looked at the next number I’d written down.
1-7-2-3-1-8
A shoutout to their dating anniversary, June 17, which I’d been lucky enough to get off Mary and had the benefit of not being public, if something like that mattered to George. Not to mention if they’d gotten the safe before the wedding, that date would maybe be fresher in the mind.
One more quick sharp breath. Then I keyed it in.
It didn’t work. Shit.
My heart raced. Should I turn back? Cut my losses? Try to get more information from George before all of this blew up in my face?
No, I thought. I was so close, and if I couldn’t crack it now, after two months of friendship with Mary, after seeing George open it in front of me, I probably never would.
I looked at my next guess written down.
1-8-2-3-1-7
Mary’s birthday. George’s birthday. Dating anniversary.
Carefully, I punched each digit in.
I didn’t think it would come, I didn’t think it could come, but then there it was, that high-pitched beep.
Fingers itching with anticipation, I pulled it open to see stacks of cash on one side, a passport and papers on the other.
Carefully, I grabbed the passport, moved it over, reached my hand even farther back.
There was a chance nothing was in here. No bracelets. No diamonds. Not a single jewel. That it had all been moved since Mary last saw it.
My fingers brushed something soft. Velvet.
I pulled out a black drawstring bag—large, too, maybe eight inches square—something you might imagine sitting at the end of a rainbow, filled with gold.
Fingers quivering, I pulled it open, suddenly desperate.
There it was, right on top.
The bold and mischievous emerald eyes. An onyx nose. A chiseled jaw and pinned-back ears, coated with diamonds.
Panthère de Cartier. Gleaming white gold, verdant emeralds, ink-black onyx, and diamonds clear as anything. The crème de la crème. Rich, even for rich people. Wikipedia had told me it was a design first created for the Duchess of Windsor—and of course it was. Modern-day imperialism and capitalism went hand in fucking hand. An icon. One that had stood the test of time.
I lifted it, heavy in my hands. This wasn’t the original, of course. That was worth millions, tucked in a museum somewhere. Still, it was Cartier, no less. The real deal. The shine and shimmer confirmed as much. The sheer clarity of every stone. God, to be so rich. A bracelet, something you took out into the world with you, worth half the cost of a small house. A little over a hundred grand. One Mrs. Cassandra Haywood had popped casually across her wrist when she’d been with Henry. I’d seen it in photos online, after all.
The riches, the sheer insanity of it, didn’t end there. It went on, like stepping into a cave of gems. A simple Cartier Love bracelet in rose gold, one that cost a cool ten thousand.
A Tiffany & Co. tennis bracelet—diamonds like a river—that had to be worth at least fifty thousand.
And even more beneath. Colors and gems and wealth wealth wealth.
Emerald drop earrings. A sapphire pendant, one that dwarfed the one I had around my neck. A viper-shaped Bulgari ring, littered with diamonds. Earrings from Harry Winston.
So much sparkle. So much flash. So many different high-end labels. It was no wonder Mary thought her sister-in-law was flashy—there was nothing even remotely modest about a single one of these pieces.
They all existed to say Look at this money. Look at all I have.
More than half a million in jewelry, tucked in the back of a wall safe.
Looked like I would get my fresh start after all.