Cora's pulse pounded in her ears.
She focused her mind on the phone in the gray void and whispered, "Out."
The phone instantly materialized in her palm. The metal was still cold.
She needed to know the limits. She grabbed a thick, heavy macroeconomics textbook from her desk. She touched the cover. It vanished. She grabbed her desk lamp. Gone. She grabbed the heavy wooden chair. Gone.
She closed her eyes and looked into the space. The book, the lamp, and the chair were floating exactly as they had been the moment she touched them. There was no dust, no air movement. Time didn't exist in there.
She pulled them all back out. They dropped onto the floor with loud thuds.
A wave of exhaustion hit her brain, but she couldn't stop the massive, genuine smile that broke across her face.
She had the ultimate vault. Now she just needed to fill it.
She sat back at her laptop and opened Google. She searched for the most volatile, high-risk financial trends in the current market.
Cryptocurrency ICOs.
Harlon was an old-school, conservative hedge fund manager. He hated anything he couldn't physically touch or legally manipulate. He despised crypto.
Cora opened a Word document. She typed furiously, creating a garbage business plan for a fake company called "Future Assets." She stuffed it with buzzwords: decentralized finance, blockchain, Web3 integration.
She deliberately left massive, glaring holes in the financial projections. She made it look exactly like a scam designed to steal money from dumb, rich kids.
She saved the file, picked up her phone, and dialed Harlon's private number.
It rang six times before he picked up.
"Cora," Harlon said. The sound of wind brushing against a golf cart speaker echoed in the background. "Is your fever gone?"
Cora pitched her voice up. She made herself sound frantic, arrogant, and completely unhinged.
"I need money, Uncle Harlon. I found an angel investment opportunity. It's going to change the world. I need to liquidate one million dollars from the trust right now."
The wind noise stopped. Harlon's voice dropped an octave, turning sharp and condescending.
"Did the meningitis fry your brain? You are not touching a dime for some internet scam."
"I'm eighteen!" Cora yelled into the receiver, playing the part perfectly. "It's my money! You can't keep treating me like a child!"
She heard Harlon take a deep, angry breath.
"You will pack a bag and come to the estate in Connecticut immediately," Harlon ordered. "We are going to have a serious talk about your financial future."
Got you.
"Fine. I'll be there tonight," Cora snapped, and hung up.
She stripped off her sweatpants and pulled on a thick, dark hoodie and jeans, hiding her weight loss and pale skin. She shoved her laptop and her ID into a black backpack.
She opened the dorm door and walked right into Hailee.
Hailee was holding two Starbucks cups. She jumped back, her eyes widening as she took in Cora's clothes.
"Cora? What are you doing? You're sick!" Hailee said, her voice dripping with fake concern.
Cora stepped around her, not even making eye contact.
"I have to go home to deal with my inheritance," Cora said flatly.
Hailee froze. Cora didn't look back, but she knew exactly what expression was on Hailee's face. Panic. The fear of losing her invisible ATM.
Cora walked out of the building. The crisp October wind hit her face, clearing the last bit of the fever fog from her brain.
She walked out to the busy intersection, raised her hand, and hailed a yellow cab, paying the driver upfront in crisp, untraceable cash to take her to Grand Central Terminal.
She sat in the back seat, watching the crowded streets of New York blur past the window. Thousands of people walking, laughing, drinking coffee. None of them knew they were dead walking.
Her phone buzzed. A massive block of text from Hailee, asking a dozen questions about the inheritance.
Cora flipped the phone to silent and shoved it in her pocket.
The taxi descended into the dark tunnel approaching Grand Central. The shadows swallowed the back seat. Cora's eyes adjusted to the dark, cold and sharp.
