The Last Gift

I pulled my jacket tight around me against the chill. My breath plumed in big clouds in front of me as I walked toward the house. The sun shone weakly, barely above the rooftops of the tidy houses in the quiet neighborhood. I walked up to the gate of the six-foot wooden fence and pulled the string that opened the inner latch. I shouldn’t be here, I thought. I had been telling myself to turn around, to let it go, to close this chapter and get on with my life. For weeks now. Ever since the judge had made the ruling and the fight was over. But I couldn’t. It was my house, and I worked hard for it and everything within its walls. I just couldn’t let it go yet. There was one more thing I had to do.

I was surprised to see people there already, removing furniture from the house and placing it on the sprawling backyard lawn. They were erecting a tent and setting up an area for seating. They had picked a good day for the auction. It was cold, but it wasn’t raining. Everything would be auctioned off today. Every stick of furniture, every bit of flatware, every possession and the house itself would be sold to pay off the criminal debt. My heart fluttered at the memories of how fast it had all gone down. One minute, I was living a life of privilege and wealth and the next, I was homeless, my husband was in prison, my brother dead. Disowned by the rest of my family. I had no one and next to nothing left. My freedom was the last gift I held onto, and that was tenuous at best.

I walked unnoticed among the furniture, remembering how much pride I had taken in my smart and sophisticated purchases. Buying antiques and other expensive furnishing had almost – almost – made me forget my impoverished upbringing. In the light of day, however, it was clear I had never escaped the poverty trap. The petty crimes committed for survival had simply morphed into greed-motivated white-collar crimes. I was not better for it.

I pushed the dark thoughts away. I was not there to find salvation and I would not find it in this place, among these tainted possessions. Nor did my intentions make me worthy of redemption. Quite the opposite, actually.

Finally, I spotted what I was looking for. It was a small, roll top secretary desk, sitting in between the bookcase and cabinet that completed the set. It was an inexpensive piece that had been thrown in with a bigger purchase as a way to sweeten the deal at the time. I had not given it much notice or thought at the time we bought it. It had simply filled an empty spot in the den but now it was the only thing on my mind. I mourned the loss of everything else around me, but maybe, just maybe, this little desk would save me. But I didn’t have the money to buy it back, hell, I barely had enough money for lunch.

I looked around, the workers were busy preparing for the auction and no one seemed to notice me. That was one of my talents, being particularly ordinary and unnoticeable. I blended in and was easily forgotten. It was one of the reasons I wasn’t currently rotting away in prison, although that could still change at any moment. I walked slowly, casually toward the desk, running my hand along its edges, almost caressing its form. It’s in the upper right-hand drawer, Kenny had said. He had held out on me until it was clear he wasn’t getting out. After everything, after all I had done, all we had been through together, it was a bitter pill to swallow to know he still didn’t trust me. But that was over, we were over, and maybe I would never get past it. At least he had cared enough to give me a final out. He didn’t have to do that. And maybe I didn’t have to flounder in squalor and destitution while wallowing in the despair of my failed life. I slid the roll top up slowly and pulled the little drawer out of its slot. My heart dropped as I turned it over in my hands, seeing nothing other than the five pieces of wood dovetailed together in the shape of a drawer. But then I noticed that the wood on bottom of the drawer was a different color and grain than the wood underneath, and it seemed a bit thick. I squatted down, hiding among the furniture, pulled out my pocketknife, and pried up the bottom of the drawer. I panicked a little when the soft wood started to splinter, but the false bottom suddenly popped out and flipped away from me, landing on the tarp to my right. I grabbed it and shoved it in my oversized purse. Underneath was a little black book, fit in a depression carved out for it. It was reminiscent of a time before cell phones, when men stored their secrets in such tiny little accomplices.

“Can I help you?” A man said, he was standing uncomfortably close behind me and his voice made me physically jump. I palmed the book and quickly slid it up my sleeve. Such a move had become second nature to me, given my profession. I stood and spun, keeping the drawer behind my back, but I was caught. What I was caught with was the question.

“I was just looking at the detail,” I said lamely. “The dovetail construction on these pieces really determines their value.” I kept my expression slack and looked him directly in the eye. My heart rate increased but I kept my cool. I slid the drawer back into the desk where I had found it. He eyed me suspiciously, but he hadn’t seen the little black book. My luck was holding for the moment.

“The auction doesn’t start for a few hours. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh? Sorry, I thought it was all day.”

“Well it's not,” he folded his arms across his chest, looking very much like a bouncer at a nightclub.

I nodded and turned to leave, feeling his eyes burn into the back of my neck the whole way back to the gate. I had to stop myself from running. I got to my car and sped away, unable to shake the feeling I would be caught, though by all accounts, no one knew about the little treasure hidden in my sleeve.

Once I was far enough away, I pulled over to the side of the road and opened the book. Inside were alphanumeric lists that I recognized as SWIFT codes used in international banking along with account numbers to go with them. Five international bank account numbers were listed beginning with three different country codes, and each with a different bank code. Kenny had offshore bank accounts that no one knew about. Had he been successfully embezzling from our criminal enterprise? How long had that been going on for? The betrayal sliced deep, but I was no longer surprised. My love for him waned a little more and he slipped that much further away from me. There was nothing else written inside the book but taped to the back cover was a safe deposit box key. It only took a couple of minutes to figure out the bank it belonged to and then I was on my way there.

Being a lifelong criminal meant having certain insurances in place at all times. Kenny and I had aliases that only we knew about and were only to be used in case of dire emergencies. I presented my fake ID to the teller and was led to the vault where the safe deposit boxes were kept. The bank manager and I each inserted our keys and he left me alone with the box. Inside was $20,000, three alias passports from as many countries sporting Kenny’s photo, a handgun, and five burner cell phones. Underneath it all were five ledgers with account numbers that matched those listed in the book. This was Kenny’s getaway kit. I flipped through the ledgers. Three were in the Cayman Islands, one was in Belize, and one in Singapore. They each had five or six-figures written in the balance columns. Based on the dates of the entries, Kenny had been embezzling for the better part of a decade. The irony of him embezzling from the embezzlers was not lost on me. I stuffed everything in my purse, slid the box back in place, and left quickly.

I went directly to the airport. There was nothing left for me there and I was ready to leave it all behind. I had my own getaway bag in the trunk of my beater car, though it didn't have the funds that Kenny's did. I squared my shoulders, sat up straighter, and set my face into an expression of entitlement on my way to the airport. I would need a new identity to get through security and confidence goes a long way when convincing people of a lie.

I parked the car in long-term parking and changed from my jeans and sweatshirt into a designer dress and expensive, yet sensible traveling shoes. I tucked my shoulder-length brown hair into a long, blond wig, pushed an engagement and wedding set onto my ring finger, and clasped a diamond necklace around my neck. My jewelry was fake but passable from afar. Lastly, I placed oversized clear glasses on my face to complete my look. I put the cash, my extra two passports, and the ledgers in a money belt I secured around my waist, stuffed the gun under the seat, and looked at myself in the mirror. I took a deep breath, gave myself a little pep talk, and headed toward the terminal. I dropped Kenny's extra passports in a trash can on the way.

I am surprised how easy it was. I purchased a ticket to Belize and made it through security without incident. The plane didn’t leave for six hours, but I kept to myself in the terminal and no one looked twice at me. I boarded the plane, had a layover in Miami, and now, here I sit on the second plane, due to land in Belize City in an hour. I can almost feel the shackles of my former life sloughing off like a bad disguise with each passing mile. I hear the whine of the landing wheels moving into place. I conjure up my confidence again. I am no longer the person that I was nor will I ever be that person again. I will never look back. No matter what happens.