Page 11 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“No,” I agree. “It’s not. But Zoe can hack into the original donation records. They should have been logged with all the accompanying documentation.”

He considers this. “Should have.”

“Should be,” I confirm.

He makes that sound again, low and noncommittal, and goes back to his coffee. It is not a reassuring sound. It is the sound of a man who has seen a great many should bes fail to become are. But he doesn’t tell me I’m wrong.

I’ve been living inside should be my whole life. The necklace should be ours. The letters should be on record. The name should mean something other than what it means now. Everything I’ve spent the last three years building is just the argument I’m having with that phrase.

“I don’t need a bankroll,” I say, before he can offer. “I know you’re going to offer, so I’m saying it first. I’ve been setting money aside for years. Every job, every cut, it’s gone into a fund. I’m ready.”

Something moves in his face. The softest possible version of softening, the kind you’d miss entirely if you hadn’t been watching Sal Delray since you were small. He was going to offer. It is completely written all over him. But he lets me have it.

“I wasn’t going to offer,” he says.

He absolutely was.

“It’s going to work,” I tell him. And I mean it. “This is the one. The window is there, the crew is right, the plan is solid. After this, I’m done. One last job, and then I figure out what I’m supposed to be when I’m not chasing after my family’s legacy.”

Sal looks at me for a long moment. He’s the closest thing to an uncle I have, which is both deeply comforting and slightly alarming. But there it is.

When he finally speaks, it’s slow and deliberate, each word set down like he’s placing cards on a table.

“The mark is never the safe,” he says. “The mark is always the story they already believe about themselves.”

I nod. I know this one.

Except I think about Georgetown. I think about standing three feet from a man in a polo shirt at the waterfront and reading him in approximately four seconds: tourist, distracted, decent watch, easy lift.

I’d misread the mark. Which is, in Sal’s language, the only real mistake.

I push the thought away. It’s been three days, and I genuinely cannot explain why a stranger I’ll never see again keeps showing up in the middle of completely unrelated situations.

“It always is,” I agree, and take a long pull of my strawberry shake.

Sal reaches for the little packet of orange marmalade and fights with the corner of the foil with shaky fingers.

“Here, let me.” I take it from him before he can protest and peel the foil back. He only grunts and proceeds to spread the marmalade over his toast.

“You been up to see your old man?”

I take a very large bite of pancake.

“How’s the block association?” I say, around it. “Any news on 86th?”

He looks at me for exactly one second. Then, as he always does when I redirect on this subject, he lets it go without ceremony. He sets down his butter knife.

“Frank DiPietro sold his boat,” he says.

“Frank DiPietro has a boat?”

“Had a boat. In his garage. Fifteen years.” He takes a bite of toast. “He saw something on television about the Jersey Shore and got ideas. He has never been on the water. He’s afraid of the water.”

“Then why did he buy a boat?”

“Kid.” He wipes his marmalade fingers on a napkin. “Why does anyone do anything?”

I lean forward. I cannot help it.