Run by Gregg Olsen Read Free Book Online Page B

hot. It must be red. Great. Nothing’s coming to me and I think Unibrow knows it.
    He shifts his weight. “If you don’t have the passcode, you can’t go inside,” he says.
    “I’m having a brain freeze,” I say, really hating this guy right now. “So many passwords to remember.”
    “We haven’t got all day,” he says, turning to go back down the corridor.
    I punch the numbers for my birthday—at least the date that I think it is.
    Nothing.
    Think. Think.
    “You only have three chances and if you don’t get it right we’ll need to arrange for the bank manager to create you a new one. He’s a real stickler for security around here.”
    I know I’ll like the bank manager even less than Unibrow, who by the way, is now in my personal top five of all annoying people. Number one is Miley Cyrus.
    I punch in my brother’s birthday. Again, nothing. Don’t parents routinely use their kids’ birthdays for such things? We don’t have a dog, so using an animal’s name isn’t going to be it.
    “Let’s go see the manager,” he says. A slight smile on his face indicates that he’s happy that I can’t remember the code. He must want to go on a smoke break, because he smells like an ashtray to me.
    Then it comes to me. My mind flashes to the day that my mom and dad set up the router for our internet connection. The password they used was the same one they used on everything—whenever anything required some kind of security code.
    “Wait!” I say. “I have it.”
    My finger goes to the keypad and I hit the following letters and numbers LY4E1234.
    Love you forever and a digit for each member of our family.
    Stupid me. Mom told me over and over that our family password for our router, security system, even internet shopping account was always the same.
    A green light flickers on the keypad display. I let out a very quiet sigh of relief.
    Unibrow looks me over and inserts his passkey. And he leads me inside. It’s a surprisingly large space with row upon row of shiny brass-fronted drawers. A table fills the center space. Three beams of light fall on its glossy black surface.
    He looks in my direction but I pay no attention.
    Instead, my eyes scan for Box 2443, the number on the key. I insert the little brass key and the box is released from the wall. I’m not really sure what’s inside it, but my parents have told me that everything I need is there.
    “All righty then,” Unibrow says. “I’ll leave you to your box. Buzz me when you want to get out of our little prison.”
    He says the words with a smile and I know it is supposed to be a joke that he uses all the time. But I don’t return his attempt at humor with a smile or anything that resembles a lighthearted response. Instead, my eyes stick like a magnet to steel on an envelope—the first of many filling the box.
    On the outside of the large white envelope is an inscription in my mother’s handwriting.
    For my daughter’s eyes only.
    I quickly notice that there is a second envelope with another recipient in mind.
    For my son’s eyes only.
    I wonder if this is in case I’m taken or killed. It sends a current of uneasiness through my body. I know without any uncertainty that my mom and my stepdad had considered I might be a casualty of their choices, their lives. I open the first envelope, the one marked for me—and my eyes only. I’ll save Hayden’s for another time. I can barely breathe. My stomach is the nest of snakes in the bottom of that pit in the old Indiana Jones DVD that Hayden made me watch at least eight hundred times. Dad is dead. Murdered. Mom is missing. And for some reason I’m expecting to find answers—and comfort—in the contents of a letter.
    Inside is yet another envelope, imprinted with a warning.
    Do not read this in front of the bank employees. There is a camera in the corner of the room. Turn your back to the camera before you read any more.
    I know my mother very, very well. She doesn’t want anyone to see my