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A uniformed mail carrier stood outside her door, holding a large envelope in his hands. “International overnight delivery for Ms. Bennett. I need a signature, please.”
Mark signed a form, thanked the mail carrier, then carried the envelope and receipt to the couch. He studied the front and back of the envelope before handing it over. “You think it’s safe to open and not booby-trapped or something?”
Tess checked the return address. “Yes, it’s from Molly MacTavish, Kyle’s mother, and I recognize the handwriting.” Leaning over, she picked up her pocketknife from the coffee table and sliced open the envelope to find a note from Molly tucked inside.
Dear Tess,
Martin and I prayed for your speedy release and were relieved to learn you are home safe. You are in our prayers every day.
Our bank called, requesting we empty our safe deposit box before they discontinue the program, so I couldn’t avoid it any longer. You’ve reminded me to do it since Kyle’s funeral, but I couldn’t face it. The bank log said he visited it the week before he died.
When we opened the box, I found this envelope addressed to you. I sent it overnight straight away, and I ken you’d be verra interested to see it.
We miss you and hope you are well. It has been a sad year, and every day has been dreich since Kyle died. The sun shines dimly without our beloved bairn, and we miss him and you.
All our love,
Molly and Martin MacTavish
Thinking back, she remembered Kyle mentioning visiting the family safe deposit box before he died. At the time, she assumed he had intended to retrieve his grandmother’s platinum band for their upcoming wedding and never connected the errand to anything else.
Tess placed Molly’s letter on the coffee table, and the words inscribed on the big manila envelope leapt from the paper. Confidential: For Tess Bennett in the event of my death, Kyle. Tess traced his familiar, scrawling handwriting with a fingertip and flipped the envelope over to the sealed flap. An old-fashioned red wax seal secured it, decorated with the initials KAM. While known primarily for his futuristic savvy, Kyle possessed an unexpected flair for colorful historical details.
Although desperate to read Kyle’s letter, she didn’t want to open it in front of Mark. The day Kyle died she had been leading a meeting in Paris when the call came. The police told her Kyle had been killed, and she relived the moment her world shattered. The shocking abruptness of his death and being robbed of a chance to say goodbye made the grief even harder to endure. If nothing else, his final message might offer closure to help her heal. “Please excuse me for a few minutes. I’ll be upstairs.”
“Of course. Take your time. I’ll be here reading if you need me.” He picked up a copy of The New York Times and stretched his legs out on the couch.
Tess trudged up the stairs one by one with her booted foot feeling heavier than a tree trunk. Weary from the climb, she plopped onto the bed and sighed. The unopened envelope floated on her damask duvet, and Kyle’s flourished signature beckoned. Putting such a personal note in his family’s safe deposit box didn’t make sense and fueled her anxiety about what his final message might reveal.
The ominous statement on the envelope’s front, In the event of my death, Kyle, struck her as formal, even paranoid, for a healthy thirty-six-year-old with a clear understanding of risk. Curiosity won out, and she sliced open the envelope, leaving the red wax seal intact. A diminutive brass key tumbled out and landed in her palm, along with a small leaf of paper. With his letter pressed against her chest, she granted herself a minute to work up the courage to read it.
Dear Tessa,
If you’re reading this, you must not have received any other messages I sent. I’m in danger, and my life’s at risk.
I’ve left you the only copy of this key. Protect it and tell no one. You’ll need it to collect a vitally important package I’ve left in London. I can’t risk leaving the address, but I trust your memory. Go to the restaurant where we had our third date. From the front door, turn right and head straight for one kilometer. Search for dragons. Look right. The name includes an indirect reference related to my favorite song. Inside, you’ll find a box under your name. Use this key.
No matter what happens to me, be strong, be brave, and go as soon as possible. I love you.
Kyle
Tess clasped the brass key and felt she’d somehow reconnected to Kyle beyond the grave. What the hell did he mean? She placed the key back into the envelope, more confused than ever. Not grieving, not crying, but disturbed. Danger? Kyle was a straight-arrow guy. If he faced a threat, he wasn’t seeking it himself. Was he depressed or suicidal, and she’d missed all the signs? No, impossible. They were both happy then, each of them glowing in anticipation of the wedding. True, Kyle had been more stressed than usual and was buried in a work project at the time, but nothing alarming. Rereading his words, she wanted to race to London to find the box now. No other choice made sense.
Downstairs, her satellite phone rang, but she ignored it. After a brief pause, the ringing persisted, stopped after four rings, then restarted. Footsteps sounded on the staircase, followed by a soft knock at the door.
Mark appeared, carrying her phone, and placed it in her hand. “I apologize for interrupting, but someone called three times in a row.”
The screen display read Declan O’Leary, VP Engineering. Everything at work she wanted to forget rushed back with harsh intensity. The momentary peace in the sunshine today disappeared like crystal water slipping through her hands into a cesspool of muck.Raising her head, Tess squinted at her phone and made a guttural groan. Declan’s call history indicated something serious was wrong, and dread filled her veins. Holding her breath, she pressed her colleague’s name on the screen and gestured for Mark to sit.
“Tess, it’s a total shitstorm here.”
Declan’s raw Irish brogue hit her before she could say hello, and the strained edge to his voice set off alarm bells. The bedside clock read four o’clock, which meant it was already midnight in Greenwich Mean Time. Not good. “What’s going on?”
“The police say the terrorists are planning a strike on Kingsley Tech in London. And Kavita’s scheming trouble.”
Adrenaline pumped through her bloodstream, and the back of her neck burned with prickly heat. Hyperalert, she clenched her jaw, and her back tightened like a metal rod. “Not going to happen. What did the police find?”
“They intercepted deep web chatter, a Belarusian terror cell planning an attack against a software company in London abbreviated KT. We’re running scared.”
