The Dark Glamour (666 Park Avenue 2)

and kept our names separate even when we were supposed to be together.
    McDeary cleared his throat, and Jane jumped. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, offering what looked an awful lot like a bow of apology. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. ‘Your brother had some instructions about that.’
    My who?
Jane almost asked, but bit the question back.
Right. My name is Caroline. Malcolm’s name is Malcolm. My husband is my brother, because he killed my grandmother and now his mother wants to steal my as-yet-unconceived baby. It’s simple, Jane; keep up!
    McDeary was eagerly explaining a complicated-sounding system of linked accounts and automatic transfers from somewhere offshore, triggered by withdrawals from her chequing account. The gist, Jane eventually understood, was that she had as much money as she wanted, replaced into her account as fast as she could spend it.
No more Rivington,
she thought gleefully. After a quick mental catalogue, she decided that she wouldn’t have to go back even once. Everything that mattered was in her purse; everything else could be left behind. She was rich again, and money equalled freedom.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said randomly, hoping it had come out during an appropriate pause in McDeary’s lengthy elaboration on the finer points of international banking treaties.
    ‘My pleasure, certainly,’ he chirped, looking as though he was seriously considering another bow.
    Jane ran her hands over the leather of the case, looking futilely for a handle. She finally settled for folding it awkwardly in her arms. It was an inconvenient way to walk, but it was only temporary, she reminded herself: everything was about to get a whole lot easier.
    ‘But, Miss Chase!’ McDeary nearly whimpered in sudden concern.
    Busted!
her brain shouted, and Jane stopped breathing. But McDeary wasn’t chasing her, setting off the bank’s alarm system, or even looking at her at all: his entire focus was on the dark interior of box 41811.
Not busted. Yet.
    ‘Did you not want the personal item?’ McDeary frowned uncertainly, straightening back up and turning a small blue box between his smooth palms. He hesitated and then cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing vulnerably. ‘Mr Chase didn’t leave instructions about this, specifically, but he clearly assigned you full ownership of the safe . . .’
    Jane turned, softening. Knowing that Malcolm had left her something personal, meaningful, suddenly meant much more to her than all of the stacks of cash she could carry. She fought the urge to rip the box out of his hands, and instead reached for it as politely as she could bear. ‘Yes,’ she answered firmly. ‘I’ll be taking that as well.’
    The manager’s hazel eyes, made small and watery-looking by the lenses in front of them, followed the box as Jane took it. ‘That was the item that brought Mr Chase to us to begin with. He said we had excellent references among his friends, and I do hope he has been happy with our services.’ His thin chest puffed out with pride. ‘He
has
been a client for nearly fifteen years, of course, so I like to think that we have met his needs.’
    ‘Of course,’ Jane assured him automatically. ‘He told me so.’ McDeary smiled deferentially, but Jane’s mind was racing.
Nearly fifteen years, and it started with this.
She lifted the box’s catch with numb fingers. This box wasn’t for her. Whatever it was, it had predated her in Malcolm’s life by more than a decade. She felt a blush mounting on her cheeks and wondered if there was a graceful way to back out of taking it now.
    Just then the catch released, and the lid fell open so easily that Jane, startled, nearly dropped the whole thing. The inside of the box was lined with soft blue velvet, and tucked securely inside was a glass unicorn. It was pretty, with finely pulled legs and an elegantly arched neck, and little touches of gold on the hooves and horn. But ‘pretty’ was the only word to describe the unicorn: there was nothing about it that gave any impression whatsoever of magic, or even of substantial monetary value. It looked, Jane decided, like the sort of thing you could buy in any mall in America.
Why this?
she wondered, touching a tiny hoof experimentally with one chipped fingernail. She half expected a magical frisson but got nothing. As far as she could tell, the ‘personal item’ Malcolm had been storing all this time was nothing more than a piece of glass.
    It’s not for me. It’s none