“Did I lose you?” she says.
“Not yet,” I say. “Where did you say you were?”
“I’m home,” she says. “And I got it open.”
The way she says it is loaded. And I realize she is talking about the safe, the small safe inside the piggy bank.
“You did?”
“Yep,” she says. “Max found a safecracker who lives in downtown San Francisco, and we opened it about an hour ago. His name is Marty and he is about ninety-seven years old. It’s insane what this guy can do with a safe. He listened to the machine for five minutes and opened it that way. Stupid little piggy bank, made of steel.”
“What’s inside?”
She pauses. “A will. The final will, for Owen Michaels né Ethan Young. Do you want me to tell you what it says?”
I think about who else is listening. If Jules starts to read, I think of who else will be listening to Owen’s will—not the will I pulled up on his laptop computer, but the will that the other will alluded to, as if in a secret message to me.
Owen’s real will, his more complete will. Ethan’s will.
“Jules, there are probably people listening to this call, so I think we should stick to a few things, okay?”
“Of course.”
“What does it say about Bailey’s guardians?”
“That you’re her primary guardian,” she says. “In case of Owen’s death, but also in case of his inability to care for her himself.”
Owen prepared for this. Maybe not exactly this, but something like this. He prepared for it in a way that Bailey would get to be with me—that he wanted Bailey with me. At what point did he trust me enough to do that? At what point did he decide that being with me was what was best for her? It breaks something wide open in me to know that he got there, that he thought I could do it. Except now she is missing, somewhere in this city. And I allowed that to happen too.
“Does he mention any other names?” I say.
“Yes. There are different rules based on whether you can’t care for her or based on Bailey’s age,” she says.
As she reads, I listen to her carefully, taking notes, writing down the names I recognize. But really, I’m listening for just one name—one person who I am trying to figure out whether to trust, whether Owen trusts, despite any and all evidence that he shouldn’t. When I hear it, when she says Charlie Smith, I stop writing. I tell her I need to go.
“Be careful,” she says.
This instead of goodbye, instead of her usual “I love you.” Considering the circumstances, considering what I need to figure out how to do now, it’s the same thing.
I stand up and look out the conference room windows. It has started raining, Austin nightlife active below, despite it. People walk the streets with umbrellas, heading to dinner and shows, debating about a nightcap or a late movie. Or deciding they’ve had enough, that the rain is getting harder, and they want to go home. Those are the lucky ones.
I turn toward the glass door. U.S. Marshal Sylvia sits on the other side. She is looking at her phone, either disinterested in me or busy with something more important than her babysitting assignment. Perhaps she is busy with the one thing I know about too well. Finding Owen. Finding Bailey.
I’m about to walk into the hall and demand a status update, when I see Grady walking down the hall.
He knocks on the door as he opens it, and smiles at me—a softer Grady, who seems to have thawed somewhat.
“They have her,” he says. “They have Bailey. She’s safe.”
I let out a breath, tears filling my eyes. “Oh, thank goodness. Where is she?”
“Up at campus, they’re bringing her back here,” he says. “Can we talk for a minute before they do? I just think it’s really important that we are on the same page with her about what the plan is going to be.”
What the plan is going to be. He means the plan to move her, to move us. He means that he wants me to help hold it all steady when he tells her that life as she knows it is over.
“And we need to talk about something else,” he says. “I didn’t want to get into it before, but I haven’t been completely transparent with you…”
“I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“We received a package yesterday with a zip drive of Owen’s work emails. I had to verify they were real, and they are. He kept meticulous records of the pressure Avett was applying to push through the IPO, despite Owen’s objections. And all the work he did after to try and make it okay…”
“It wasn’t just a specific guess then?” I say. “About Owen’s culpability in all this?”
“No, I guess not,” he says.
“So it’s really my husband who tamped it down?” I say.
My voice rises. I try to check it, but I can’t. Because Owen is doing everything to protect us, even from wherever he is now. And I just don’t trust that Grady knows how to do the same.
“He has certainly helped,” he says. “WITSEC can be challenging about who they’re willing to help out, and these files plus his history underscore why he didn’t blow the whistle until now. Why he felt he had no choice but to stay on board.”
I take this in, feeling a weird mix of relief and something else. At first I think it’s irritation at Grady for withholding this, withholding that he’d heard from Owen, but then I realize it’s something more sinister. Because it’s starting to crystallize for me—what else Grady’s been withholding from me.
“And why are you sharing this information with me now?” I say.
“Because we need to be a united front when Bailey gets here,” he says. “About WITSEC, about the best way for
