Fear washed over Lance. It started deep inside his gut and hit him like a tsunami, full force. He buried his face in his hands, moaning like the deceased Jacob Marley in the Christmas Carol.  

"I'm a dead man." Lance rocked back and forth, rambling. "I could put the box back, pretend I never opened it, couldn't I?" He knew that probably wasn't an option since the bank officers were aware of his instructions and had deposited the retainer in his account.  

In his distress, Lance didn't realize Miss Trainor could hear him until she popped her head through the door opening.  

"Oh, goodness, Mr. Fenway, are you okay?" She feigned concern.

Not waiting for an answer, she entered the room and hurried to Lance's side, bending close to him, hoping to see inside the box. She scowled when she realized the box was closed. Perturbed by her lack of success, her perkiness disappeared as she asked, "Do you need me to get help?"

"No, no-no!" Another bolt of fear shot through Lance. He wasn't aware of how wild his eyes appeared when he snapped his head around to look at her. "I'm fine."

She took a step back, wondering if he was actually ill. She'd never seen anyone react so violently in the vault, tears maybe, but not anything like Lance. She swallowed the bile in her throat and touched his arm. "Are you sure I can't get you some water? Or maybe you need one of the bank officers?"

Lance shook his head and snapped, "No!" 

"Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean —" Any other time, she would have rushed out of the room, but her curiosity about the box trumped everything. 

Lance stared at the box, waiting for — her to disappear, maybe? Or better yet, rewind the clock, and none of this would be happening. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled, and opened them. Nope, everything was the same. 

Without looking at Miss Trainor, he spoke, "Tha-a-nk yo-u." He could hear the quiver in his voice but continued, "You can go now."

He waited for her to disappear before his trembling hands lifted the lid for the second time. He felt like a man on death row remembering his favorite Christmas, stars in his eyes, and gloom in his heart.  

His hand hovered above the box, afraid to touch what was inside. It was brimming with fancy watches, gold rings and chains, and more glittering diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires than he'd ever seen. Velvet bags of assorted sizes filled half of the box. He couldn't even imagine what secrets the pouches held.  

"It must be a dream." Reality knocked, and Lance muttered, "I wish."

None of this made sense to the attorney. His client's home needed repair, inside and out. If Blackwell had money, why would he exist in squalor? It made no sense to keep the jewels locked away to give them to someone when he died. What was going on? 

Pow! Bang! Boom! 

Like a bolt of lightning, a thought shot through Lance's mind. His entire body trembled as the idea rolled around in his head. His heart hammered against his chest. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. 

Finally, his brain screamed, "the jewel heist."  

Not just any robbery but the heist of the century started a gang war that continued today. More people than he could imagine had died because of these baubles. Lives had changed. 

Panic set in!

He didn't know what to do, but he knew he needed to get out of the bank before anyone else knew what was in the box. His eyes darted around the room, checking for cameras. He hadn't expected any, but one never knows. 

He needed to act and fast! 

With the bag in hand, he grabbed the jewelry by the handfuls, tossing everything into the opening. In his haste, his movements were jerky, and some of the loose jewels scattered across the floor. He knelt, crawling under the table, retrieving what had dropped. 

Unbeknownst to Lance, Miss Trainor couldn't resist peering through the open crack. Her eyes widened at the scene unfolding inside the cubicle. She covered her mouth, stifling a scream. She rushed down the hall, disappearing into the bathroom before falling to the floor, repeatedly muttering, "Oh my God. Oh, my God." A mixture of exhilaration and terror washed over the teller as she realized what she'd seen.  

Scooping up the remaining jewels, Lance tossed them into his briefcase, snapped it closed, and stepped outside the cubicle. Not seeing Miss Trainor, he walked briskly out of the vault and directly toward a side exit. It opened into an empty alley. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he fell against the brick wall, exhaling. Lance was happy to see the alley was empty. 

Wrapping both arms around the briefcase and pressing it against his chest, Lance rounded the corner and ran as fast as he could move. If he saw anyone, he dodged behind trees, bushes, parked cars, and the sides of vacant houses until the coast was clear. He was certain either the gangs or the police were on his heels. 

He welcomed the sight of his office building. He scanned the narrow street and ran, darting between parked cars. Lance yanked open the foyer door and sprinted inside, pulling the door closed behind him. His chest heaved as he gasped for air.  

After a few moments, he peered through the glass door, checking for strangers. His mouth was dry. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and his legs felt like cement. 

The thought of any of his body parts being cement sent him scurrying up the staircase to the second landing. Refusing to collapse, he shuffled down the dimly lit hall, unlocked his office door, slamming it behind him. Then, as he fastened the deadbolt, he sank to the floor in utter exhaustion. 

The phone on his desk rang, but he refused to answer it. His heart was beating in his throat. Lance spoke to himself, "You've got to get ahold of yourself. You need a plan." Then, using the chair, he pulled himself up and moved to his desk, collapsing in his office chair. "Forget the plan. I need a drink."

The teetotaler found a bottle of bourbon and a glass in his desk drawer. Unscrewing the cap, he poured the golden liquor into the glass, stopping when it was half full. He heard a noise in the hall, and a chill ran down his spine. Lance lifted the bottle and filed the glass to the top, chugging it until it was empty.  

He admonished himself but poured another drink. "You've outdone yourself this time, Lance. How could one dying client put you in this position? His money erased all your questions." He drank the bourbon and moaned, "Welcome to the big leagues, Mr. Fancy Lawyer. Do the names Costello and O'Hara mean anything to you? They should because they are coming after you when they find out, and they will."

Lance picked up his briefcase, flipped the latch, and spilled the contents on the desk. He stared mindlessly at the jewelry. 

Millions of dollars lay on his blotter.  

His throat tightened with fear, causing him to choke on the bourbon. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. He needed a friend, but whom could he trust? Only one name popped into his muddled thoughts. Grabbing his phone, he dialed the number. 

After three rings, a familiar but angry voice answered. "I'm busy. Who's calling?"

"Bennie, it's me. I need you to get over here fast." Lance swallowed hard. "My life might depend upon it."

"Jesus! What are you talking about, Lance? Can't it wait? I'm kind of in the middle of something if you get my drift."

 "No, it can't wait! Bennie. Listen up. Tell the girl goodbye and get your butt over here now. I'm hanging up the phone, so pull your pants on and high-tail over to my office." Lance slammed the phone back into its cradle. He prayed no one would call or knock on his door except Bennie. He poured another bourbon and chugged it, mentally begging his cousin to hurry. 

Twenty minutes later, a man's shadow appeared on the frosted glass. Lance held his breath as someone jiggled the door handle. Goosebumps spread up his arms. Trembling, he swept the box's contents off the desk into the top drawer, praying it was Bennie outside. Looking around, he grabbed his letter opener as protection. 

"Lance, you in there?" Bennie tried the doorknob again and pounded on the door, yelling, "Why the heck is your door locked?"

Lance leaped from his chair, dropping his weapon, and flew across the room. His trembling hands fumbled with the lock. When it clicked, Lance opened the door, grabbed Bennie's shirt, and yanked him inside. 

Lance's actions stunned Bennie. "Have you gone mad?" He removed Lance's fingers from his shirt and gave him a shove. "Why would I be followed, and what's with the locked door?" 

A tongue-tied Lance stepped aside, and Bennie spied the bottle of bourbon and empty glass on the desk. "Kind of early for that stuff, isn't it?" He studied his cousin's troubled face and changed his tone. "Maybe you better pour both of us a glass and tell me what's got you tied in knots."