Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

We stand there awkwardly, until he notices the envelope in
my hand.
I whip it behind my back and swallow, curling my fingers
around the key.
When he glances back up at my face with an eyebrow
cocked, I know I look guilty.
Shit.
“I was just, um, going through some drawers and I found
this, um, key that I think my parents must’ve left.” My shrug
tries for nonchalant, but probably looks shifty as hell. “I was
trying to figure out what it might be for.”
“You could text them a picture, see if they recognize it.”
“That’s a really good idea! I’ll do that. Thanks.”
“Though it’s probably just a spare house key. You’ve got a
Kwikset lock and dead bolt.” He nods at the door. “Their keys
are all a standard size and shape. Did you try it yet?”
“No. I literally just found it.”
“Let me have a look.” He holds out his hand.
Unless I want to look ridiculous—and guilty of something
to boot—I have no choice but to hand it over.
He takes it from me and holds it up. “Nope. This isn’t for
your front door.”
“Oh. Okay.” I reach for it. “I’ll just take that back, then—”
“It’s for a safety deposit box.”
My hand freezes in midair. My voice comes out high and
tight. “A safety deposit box?”
“Yeah. You know, at a bank?”
My heart pounds. The urge to snatch the key from his hand
and slam the door in his face is almost overpowering. Instead,
I tuck my hair behind my ear in an attempt to appear as if I’m
not going completely insane.
“At a bank. Uh-huh. And how do you know that?”