The teenager looked awkwardly before slowly handing the keys over to Jonah. Jonah took it immediately and went to the back.
"Sheesh, I wonder what is going on with him today." The teenager muttered to himself.
Jonah quickly went through the mail boxes, his mind distracted, spending less than five minutes in there, he walked out again. The teenager looked up with a concerned look on his face.
“Hey, you okay? You seem, I don't know. A little off,today." he asked, his voice tainted with worry.
Jonah, was not ready to talk to anyone and he simply went past the teenager, the post office door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud.
He did not have the energy for small talk, for pleasantries, for anything that did not directly address the growing anxiety in his gut.
“Hey! Wait!" the teenager called out, his voice tinged with urgency. Jonah hesitated, his hand hovering over the car door handle. He turned, a flash of irritation in his eyes.
“What is it?" he asked, his voice flat. The teenager rushed towards him, his eyes wide.
"I… I heard something," he stammered, his gaze darting around the parking lot as if expecting someone to materialize.
“About the box. The one you keep using to drop off things."
Jonah's heart skipped a beat. "What did you hear?" he asked, his voice low and tense.
"My uncle," the teenager began, covering his mouth as if there were someone who could tell what he would say. "He was on the phone, earlier. He mentioned the numbers 5210. Said something about a special delivery. And then, right after the call, he asked me for the keys to that box. He took whatever was inside."
Jonah’s mind raced. 5210. That was the box number. But why would the manager, the teenager's uncle, be involved?
“Did he take what was inside?" Jonah echoed, his voice impatient.
"What do you mean? I do not know exactly," the teenager admitted. He just he took it. He did not say what it was, but he was acting all weird and shit. Like he was in a hurry."
“Weird? How?" Jonah pressed, his eyes narrowed.
“Nervous, maybe? He kept looking over his shoulder. And he never usually goes back there himself. He always makes me do it." The teenager explained.
“He was also in a hurry too. He is the manager, he does not do much." The teenager explained. A chill settled over Jonah.
Could the manager be the blackmailer? How did he lay his hands on those pictures or voice recordings? Did he or Elliot have any connection to the manager?
Jonah thought to himself. "Who is your uncle?" Jonah asked, his tone growing more serious. "What is his name?"
"Mr. Thompson," the teenager replied. "He has been running this place for years. He has always been a bit secretive, I guess."
"What do you mean, secretive?" Jonah asked again, needing to know everything.
“He gets a lot of weird calls, and he has a lot of special customers. He does not like me asking questions, and he never tells me anything. He is always talking about VIP clients and special deliveries." The teenager concluded.
“Does he ever mention names?" Jonah asked, his mind buzzing with possibilities. The teenager shook his head.
"No, never. He has been really careful about that."
“Okay," Jonah said. "Thank you. You have been a great help."
"No problem," the teenager replied, his eyes filled with curiosity.
“But, I would like to know what is going on… Fill me in?"
Jonah hesitated, then shook his head. "It is complicated," he said, his voice laced with weariness. "Just be careful, okay? Do not mention this conversations to anyone."
The teenager nodded positively. “Okay sir, I won't. Hold on, please do not let my uncle know I told you any of this. Please I beg of you. This job is the only way I can save for college."
The teenager pleaded.
Jonah agreed, thanked him once again and opened the door of his car. Jonah got into his car, his mind reeling. He had to see Mr. Thompson.
He had to find out what was going on. He drove home, thoughts clouding in his head. He could not shake the feeling that he was getting closer to the truth, but he also felt like he was walking into a trap.
He waited, pacing his apartment, until the sun began to set.
He knew Mr. Thompson would be closing the post office soon.
He drove back, parking a few blocks away and walking the rest of the way. He watched the post office from across the street, his eyes fixed on the entrance.
As the last of the customers came out, Mr. Thompson emerged, locking the door behind him. He was a man of medium height, with a slightly rounded build and a receding hairline. He wore a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his demeanor calm and collected.
Jonah scrutinized his build, he did not have the same build as the dark figure he met at the bridge that night. Maybe there was a whole team of blackmailers.
Jonah thought to himself. Jonah took a deep breath and crossed the street.
"Mr. Thompson?" he called out, his voice firm. Mr. Thompson turned.
"Yes?" he replied, his voice smooth and professional. "Can I help you?"
"I am Jonah Hartfield," Jonah said, his eyes fixed on Mr. Thompson's face.
"I have been using box 5210 to make some drop offs." Mr. Thompson's expression remained neutral.
"Yes, I know," he said, his voice calm. "You are a regular customer. I understand you removed something from that box earlier today," Jonah continued.
Mr. Thompson's maintained his composure. "Removed something? I do not recall doing that."
"I saw you, when I came to make another drop off. I went to use the bathroom and saw you at the exact same box when I came out but you did not seem to notice me. I was in a hurry to leave." Jonah stopped to catch his breathe and watch Mr Thompson’s mood.
“I saw you on the phone talking to someone while removing something from the P.O. box mentioning it is number 5210." Jonah said his voice becoming strong to make it more believable.
Mr. Thompson's eyes narrowed slightly. "You must have misunderstood.” He said, his voice smooth. "I receive many calls, and I handle many packages. I do not have time to remember every detail."
"But you remember the numbers 5210," Jonah pressed, his voice rising. "You remember a special delivery."
Mr. Thompson sighed, Jonah was starting to get on his nerves. "Look, Mr. Hartfield, I do not know what you are talking about. I run a business here. I have VIP customers who require special handling. I do not have time for conspiracy theories."
“VIP customers who send blackmail money?" Jonah retorted, his voice covered with anger. Mr. Thompson's eyes flashed.
"Blackmail money? I have no idea what you are implying. I do not know you, Mr. Hartfield, and I certainly do not know anything about blackmail."
"Then why did you take something from that box?" Jonah demanded.
"I did no such thing." Mr. Thompson insisted, his voice firm. "Perhaps you saw wrong. I am not the only person with this build, you know." Jonah stared at him, his mind reeling.
Mr. Thompson's was calm, almost dismissive. He did not seem like the type of person who would be involved in blackmail.
But Jonah could not shake the feeling that he was lying. "I do not believe you," Jonah said, his voice low and tight. "I am going to find out what's going on, Mr. Thompson. And when I do, and it turns out you are a part of this? I am going to make sure you pay for it."
Mr. Thompson chuckled. "You are welcome to try, Mr. Hartfield," he said, amused.
“But I suggest you focus on your own problems especially finding out who your blackmailer is, because it is clearly not me. You are wasting your time here."