But why the unlocked house? Why the open door? And in the middle of the night, with his wife and child both whisked away as well, and without any of them leaving a single note with friends or colleagues . . .

Eugene stepped inside the bank and joined the line for the teller. It was a sad building, long since fallen from grace and no longer favored as a bastion of the economy. The lone teller was weary and drab behind her window; the guard standing sentinel by the door looked hot and tired. The town had stationed him there once the news of Walker and Monnet’s arrival in Louisiana struck, as much to ward off those two as to dissuade the townspeople from following in their footsteps. An air of discontent permeated Chanlarivyè, and officials feared that Walker and Monnet could prove to be the lone spark of life to ignite it.

Eugene had no notion of a life of crime. Chanlarivyè was a quiet town, boasting no more than the standard petty misdemeanors: the usual fights and small feats of violence that shaped America’s south. Once in a while there was a murder, duly written up by the Gazette, but the gossip surrounding it long outlived the case itself. Johnny Walker and Angelique Monnet were the biggest thing to happen in years, and though Eugene itched to get close again, to take their picture, even to speak to them, he knew better than to try. There was only one end waiting for people like that, and he didn't want to be caught in the crossfire when it happened.

He kept his head down as he waited. The line shuffled along, people buzzing listlessly at the teller’s window to pay their bills, bled dry for every penny. Eugene understood the bank robbers’ motivations, though he didn’t share them. The risk was too great, the payoff too unpredictable. He wondered sometimes whether he had some moral deficiency, if he ought to be more repulsed by the thought of crime, but then, he knew he was morally deficient. He always had been.

He was last in line with three others ahead of him, the man at the forefront lingering over some detail in his account. Eugene didn’t mind. He was in no hurry to return to the office and the foreboding hush that smothered his colleagues. Their minds churned with possibilities none dared speak aloud, their operation headless without their director, but still they worked on.

The bank door opened behind Eugene and a breeze drifted in. It was his only warning before a woman’s voice called out: “The first person to move gets a round straight to the gut.”

The silence that fell over the bank was deafening. Eugene froze, his shoulders so tense they hurt. Footsteps rang out over the tiled floor, sharp and true, and a hand landed heavily on his shoulder. He flinched.

“Anyone who draws their weapon will be responsible for this man’s death,” Walker said. His voice was clear and calm, unruffled by adrenaline, even as he dug his fingers into the material of Eugene’s jacket to stop him from shying away. “And we don’t want that. All we want is the bank’s money.”