Chapter 8 · Switch Eight

"It's not the lock. It's the whole panel." Marco's thumb hits the cold room release three times and the light stays red.

"Someone cut the circuit from outside."

"Cut it, or the county pulled it." I'm still hammering the door with the heel of my hand, which does nothing, which I know does nothing, and I do it anyway because standing still means thinking about the fact that we're locked in a fourteen-degree room with my husband's die in my pocket and nobody who knows where either of us is. He keys the radio. Static, then a voice I don't know, flat and bored like he's reading a shift log.

"Cold room's on customs hold as of oh-six-forty. Seal's federal. Nobody in, nobody out till the marshal signs off."

"Federal," I say.

"On my ice house."

"On my crates," Marco says, and for the first time since the booth he sounds like the number's actually costing him something.

"Which are sitting in your ice house. Which makes it the same hold, Lila."

"Don't say my name like we're friends."

"I'll say your name however I want. You signed the appendix.