“I need coffee,” she says and plants her feet so she can help me up. She’s damn fucking adorable. “But food will wait for after. I don’t want to throw up.”

“Coffee, no breakfast. Check.”

“I didn’t realize I had walked so far down the beach. How did you find me?”

“Your hair.” I lock my fingers with hers. “You don’t blend, Mary Margaret.”

“I never have.” She shrugs and then laughs. “Blending isn’t my specialty.”

“Good. I like it that way.”

Chapter 10

~Maggie~

This is it.

I thought the bank would be bigger. Grander. I know enough to know that people keep millions, if not billions, of dollars here to hide it from the feds. So, because it houses so much dough, I’d thought for sure it would be a big, important-looking building.

But it’s not.

It’s white and square, and if I’m being honest, it appears kind of institutional. If there weren’t huge guards with guns just inside the door, you’d think it was a hospital or something.

One of the guards checks our IDs and then escorts us to one of the bankers.

“Geez, they’re sticklers for safety,” I whisper to Cam, who just nods stiffly.

Maybe he’s more nervous than I am.

This part of the day runs pretty much the way I thought it would. We’re escorted to a little office where a banker collects my identification and the death certificate I brought with me. Then, he leaves—I assume to verify my information.

“I wonder—”

But Cam cuts me off by leaning over to kiss me, then whispers in my ear, “We’re being watched.”

I fold my lips closed, and the nerves start to set in.

Of course, we’re being watched. Why didn’t I think of that? This isn’t your friendly neighborhood credit union, for God’s sake.

It feels like we wait forever, but when I glance at my watch, it’s only been ten minutes when a different banker returns, his face in serious lines.

“I’m Mr. Santiago,” he says. “I’ve verified that you are the beneficiary on the account in question. The death certificate is in order. How would you like the funds?”

“How much is it?”

His lips tighten.

“It’s not like I’ve been receiving regular bank statements.”

Mr. Santiago turns to the computer and taps some keys. “Seven hundred thousand, eight hundred and seventeen dollars and thirty-six cents.”

I stare at him, stunned.

That’s a hell of a lot more than five hundred thousand.

“If you issue me a cashier’s check—”

“We should wire transfer this much money,” he says, cutting me off.

“Of course.” I glance at Cam, who nods and takes my hand reassuringly. “I’m sorry, I’m not thinking straight. I have my account information.”