The car icon looks like it’s leaving the airport.
It doesn’t feel like we’re that close to town. Not at all. What with the trees and the lake and the river. The Cajun chorus frogs, and the egrets, and the coyotes.
So Josh could have hired a ride and gone anywhere.
But where?
Greta said Josh was fantasizing about running away. Fleeing the country. But hedidn’tdo that.
He couldn’t have.
But if he did—
I tap the First Horizon banking app on my phone. I type in the username for our joint account and use my thumbprint to autofill the password.
A red message pops up on the screen.
The password is invalid. Please try again or call customer service for assistance.
I go through the motions a second time, skipping the biometric short cut and typing in our password, Bl1$$Bucks, so I can see each character.
The password is invalid. Please try again or call customer service for assistance.
Sweat pricks my temples.
I toss the phone down on my desk and pull up the login page on my laptop. This makes no sense.
That’s our password. Secure but easy enough for all of us to remember. I’ve logged in at least twice a week over the last two months. Minus what we’ve spent on equipment, materials, and paying Theriot & Sons to pour the gravel parking lot and the drive stretching from the lodge to Highway 353, our two Camp Bliss accounts should total around $850K.
But logging in on the laptop doesn’t work either.
And being locked out of our accounts feels like all the blood in my head has been replaced with kerosine.
Gnawing my bottom lip, I punch the customer service number into my phone. Of course, an automated operator answers.
“Hello. And welcome to First Horizon where serving you is our mission. To make a loan payment, please press one. For the automated teller telephone banking system, please press two—.”
I press two.
“For account information, please press one.”
One.
“Please enter your account number followed by the pound sign.”
We have two accounts. A checking account for covering expenses and a savings account to hold money in reserve for when we need it. I tap in the checking account number first. I haven’t looked at the balance in a couple of days, but it should have roughly twenty thousand in there.
“Your current balance is $9,902.87.”
My brows cinch. What did we pay for that cost ten grand?
I shove out of my chair and pace the confines of the cabin, jabbing the screen to navigate my way back to the account menu. I need to get my login to work so I can figure this out, but first, I want to check the other account. The big account. The one that’s seven figures.
“Your current balance is $415,229.19.”
My intestines attempt a jailbreak.
“What the fuck—”