Read Moving Day: A Thriller for Free Online

living in. But an event like this can also confuse them, paralyze them. If the old man realizes and changes the lock? There’s a chance of that. But there’s also a chance—a good chance—he won’t even think of it. These rich old people. He’s learned a lot about them, doing this. And one thing he’s learned, a lesson initially hard for him to take in, hard for him to accept, given the material meagerness, the tatters and scraps, of his own grim upbringing: a lot of them, they can’t even keep track of what they own.
    Nick’s got Peke’s signature in triplicate on the stack of bogus transportation documents. In the desk drawer, he’s got plenty of Peke’s IDs—Social Security card, passport, etc. If it were a big institution, a big city bank, he would have someone practice forging the signature, to match the signature card on file, which would get them into the safe-deposit box vault room. But this is a small town. Probably a small, old-fashioned, personal bank. They might know Peke personally. They might even be watching for Peke’s name. In which case Nick’s got another idea. A deft, beautiful idea.
    It’s safer, of course, not to go back. Not to risk it. But there’s something in this old man. Something in the man’s proud posture, his swollen chest. Some arrogance, some strength, something unshakable, that rubs at Nick. That rubbed at him a little all thatmoving day. That’s rubbed at him a little the whole trip here. The mild, unplaceable European accent. As if the old man doesn’t belong in America and has come here and taken Nick’s things. As if, if he hadn’t come here, these would be Nick’s things. As if this is a little Manichaean universe of just the two of them, and he has taken up Nick’s rightful possession of it and right place in it.
    He holds up the old key. Brass, faded, and dull. Cut with the old-style round fob. Check the oldest bank. The first bank. They’d lived in that town forty years, didn’t he hear the old man say, and undoubtedly people like that don’t change banks a lot. He may have forgotten entirely about the safe-deposit box. After all, here’s the key in the corner of a drawer. Likely it’s worth the risk, worth the effort. The old man’s memory is shaky. And if he changes the lock, so be it.
    This one, Nick is going to hit again. Wipe out completely. Pluck the last feathers of the proud peacock.
    He continues carefully through the carton of desk drawer contents, but it’s like staying down in the mine when you’ve already had a strike. In his head, Nick is already heading back East.

T he adjusters gone, Peke closes the door of their home for the final time in forty years, slips the key for the last time into the lock, and at that moment—only then—thinks of the other key. The key in the corner of his desk drawer. The key to their safe-deposit box.
    His heart clutches a little. He can picture it in the very corner of the right desk drawer, under the papers. He can picture it there, in its little box. Shiny, a brass invitation . . .
    How can he have forgotten? But the answer is obvious. Because he is seventy-two. Because what’s in the safe-deposit box hasn’t been thought about by either of them for years. Because the annual charge for the box is simply deducted from one of the monthly bank statements that he barely checks anyway.
    In a moment, though, he is calm again. Not alarmed. It’s easy enough for Peke to have the box’s lock changed. It’s late afternoon; the bank is closed now. He can take care of it first thing in the morning. It seems unlikely that the thief will even come across the key.
    The prudent thing will be to change the lock. The safe thing.
    Peke thinks for a moment about this.
    If he did find the key, would a creature like this thief actually return for the items in the safe-deposit box? It seems preposterous. Clearly, the thief’s scam calls for planning and care, and to come back to the scene of the crime would be outside