The Dream Thief by Kerry Schafer Page B

I'll go see what she has in her hidey-hole. And I'll be in touch, okay?" I blundered out of there, half blind, with the key in my pocket and a copy of the will in a manila envelope.
    One long main street runs the length of town. Swallowing down nausea, I drove past the mall, such as it is, and the feed store, stopped briefly at a stoplight, and proceeded into town proper. I passed a Bank of America and the new Starbucks, which I resented. There had been a small coffee shop on that corner all my life, a little shabby but its own individual place, at least. The drugstore was a Walgreens and this too jolted me with a sense of disappointment. When I was a kid it was an independently owned and family run business, but progress had caught up even to Williamsville.
    I turned right on 2 nd Ave, across from the Safeway, and pulled over into a tree-shaded parking space right in front of Western Co-op. Still feeling the ghost vibration from the bike, I sat in silence for a minute, rubbing my forehead and turning the little key over and over in my fingers.
    My cell phone went off, and by now I wasn't finding the shark music amusing anymore. "Hey," I said, deliberately rude.
    "Due to delay, your customer has changed location."
    "Please listen—"
    "You will find him at Alderson's Forestry Products. Now."
    And then silence. I knew damned well that there was no escape for me this side of death, and that the pain would ease the instant I set out looking for Will. But I was sitting right outside the bank, with the little key squeezed in my fist.
    In the years since my mother ran off I'd told myself all sorts of stories about her. She'd been abducted by aliens. She'd run off with a movie star. A serial killer had stolen her away and buried her body somewhere in the national forest. These were the early versions. As I got older and thought about things, it was easy to see that she'd just left. She didn't love me enough to stay, or even to say goodbye.
    And now, all these years later, I sat holding a little silver key in my hand, wondering exactly what she might have left me.
    Will's dream, and my relief from pain, could wait a few more minutes.
    As I walked into the bank I tried to hold myself in check. High expectations only meant deeper disappointment. What did people use a safety deposit box for, anyway? Jewelry , I told myself. Coins. Photos of her lover. Something she hadn't wanted my dad to see . A flood of annoyance washed through me that she'd dragged me into this little game.
    Biting back the pain, I breezed through the door like I had every right to be there. Small, for a bank. Two teller windows. A couple of chairs to sit in if you had to wait. Toys for kids. Only one office, where a woman sat behind a computer, simultaneously talking into a Bluetooth and typing.
    There was no line so I proceeded directly to the first open teller. Nobody I recognized, although the girl was about my age. Her nametag declared her to be Stacie, and she disliked me at first glance.
    "Can I help you?"
    Her tone grated on nerves already raw and I had no patience, but I sucked it up. I had no time for a scene.
    "I need to talk to Bev."
    "She's busy."
    "She's also expecting me."
    Stacie initiated a stare down, and I smiled at her, not saying another word. I left my sunglasses on and just stood there, waiting. It only took a minute. 
    "Oh, all right then."
    She tapped across the lobby on heels that were ridiculous for a woman on her feet all day. I followed her to the single office. The woman on the phone looked up and smiled, giving me a little wave to indicate that she'd be available in a minute, and Stacie traipsed back to her post without another word.
    "Jesse Davison. How long has it been?" Bev was clad in a sensible skirt and blouse, and wore just enough makeup to look professional. She was a square built woman with bulldog jowls, but her smile was genuine and a lovely thing to behold. Getting up from behind the desk she crossed the room and took