Someone could have wanted it for art projects, for a card shop, for a personal collection of such things.
But no.
No.
It wasn't a normal person at all, was it?
It was someone who wanted it for the same reason we wanted it.
To print their own money.
Except, maybe, the plan all along had been to procure the equipment. And then the man himself.
Ewan O'neal was many things. An artist, he was not. He always needed someone else to do the actual work. Finch, and then a small handful of much less skilled men and women.
It made sense that, after a while of working with those who couldn't give him what he wanted, that he would take back the one who could.
And knowing that Finch would never go willingly, he devised a plan to take him by force.
"I, ah, I have to go," I told him, slamming the cup down on the counter with too much force, the burning liquid sloshing over my hand.
"Whoa, no. You're not driving anywhere when you haven't slept in twenty-four hours."
"I have to go, Malc. I might have something," I told him, turning and rushing out.
Being the closest thing to an actual giant I had ever come across, he was next to me in just a handful of strides, wrestling my keys out of my hand when I retrieved them.
"I'll drive you," he grumbled, taking off ahead of me.
When we got there, my stomach was in knots, worried the press guy might have taken off already, that he would have used the money Finch had paid him to start over like we'd suggested.
From the looks of things when the door opened, we had just barely managed to catch him. Another day, and I was sure we would be too late. Boxes were stacked around the living space, suitcases were near the door.
"Oh, you again."
"Yes, me again. I need something from you. A phone number."
"You want my phone number?" he asked, spine straightening, making Malcolm let out a snort.
"No. I want the number of the other man who wanted the printing press," I told him as he slumped.
"Why? I mean, it seems like it would be wrong to share phone numbers with you. You know... without a good reason."
He didn't mean reason; he meant incentive.
He wanted more money.
As if he didn't have a small fortune already.
"I got a good reason," Malcolm declared, slamming the door open with one giant hand, storming in.
"I... I will call the police," Roger declared, eyes huge.
"You could, but you'd have to take this from me first," Malc said, finding his phone, waving it in the air. "You're going to give me the passcode," he demanded.
"This will all be over in a few moments if you just cooperate," I told Roger.
This man was not of the brave sort. He offered the passcode, looking deflated.
"Got it," Malcolm said, snapping a picture with his own phone before tossing it back on the counter. "Was that so hard?" he asked, offering the man an eye roll before turning and making his way back out.
"Malc, give--" I started to demand, jogging to keep up with him, only to be cut off when he tossed his phone over his shoulder carelessly, making me scramble to catch it with my too-slow reflexes.
"That's why you need to sleep," he shot back at me when it bounced harmlessly off the floor in its thick rubber case.
"I will sleep when we get a pin on this guy," I told him, getting into his phone, plugging Ewan's last known phone number into my own phone. I couldn't do anything with it until I got back to Hailstorm, and the anxiety was making me bounce around in the passenger seat, fidgeting with my seat belt and the vents.
"What are you doing? We need to get back to Hailstorm," I snapped when he turned into a fast food parking lot.
"You need to eat."
"I need you not to tell me what I need to do," I shot back.
"Let me rephrase, you're going to eat. You pick or I do," he added, pulling up toward the drive-through.
"I'm not hungry."
"Suit yourself," he said, shrugging, barking a massive order at the intercom.
"You ordered half the menu."
"Figure your stubborn ass will want something I got," he said, shrugging as he reached for his wallet.
In the end, it turned out Malcolm beat me in the stubborn department, refusing to pull out of a parking spot until I picked something out of one of the five bags, and put it in my mouth.
I did so out of desperation to get moving, but once I started, I found myself ravenous. Running only on caffeine and no sleep messed my system, allowing me to plow through a bag and a half before my stomach decided it was at max capacity.
"Was that so hard?" he asked, putting the truck into reverse, getting us back on the road.
It was the food's fault.
That I managed to pass out on the way back.
I woke up slowly, my face pressed against the door panel. My neck screamed in objection as I tried to straighten, slow-blinking out the window that showed me a steadily setting sun.
Setting?
That made no sense.
"Good to know if we ever need to calm your ass down, just gotta toss you in the car and drive you around like a baby," Malcolm's said, making me jolt and turn to find him sitting in the driver's seat.
"Jesus," I snapped, hand slapping over my heart. "Were you just sitting there this whole time watching me sleep?"
"No. Drove you around for a while. Then came here, handed off the information to Aunt Lo. Then came back while they got to work."
Work.
Work I was supposed to be doing.
"How could you let me sleep, Malc?" I demanded, nearly falling out of the truck, finding my legs racked with pins and needles from being folded at an awkward angle.
"You needed sleep."
"I was fine."
"You were dead on your feet. You wouldn't get shit of quality done if you kept on like that."
"I can go for more than one day without sleep if I need to."
"If you want to have a breakdown, sure," he agreed, standing by, watching as I wiggled some life back into my legs. "If you didn't need sleep, Chris, why did you pass out for almost ten hours?"
"When did you get so damn bossy?" I asked, slamming the truck door.
"Learned from the best," he told me, lips twitching up. "Lo said to come see her when you got up," he told me, giving me a chin jerk as he went back to the driver's side, climbing in, and rambling away.
Ten hours.
Plus the travel time.
We had lost so much time.
If the destination was Louisiana, Finch would be there by now. Having who-knew-what happen to him.
Because he was someone who didn't bite his tongue, who liked poking at people. He certainly wasn't going to hop-to and do whatever Ewan wanted him to do.
It would take days or even weeks of persuasion before I thought Finch would give in.
Which meant there could be days or weeks where he would be subjected to various forms of persuasion.
Ewan's reputation said he was particularly adept and all-too-willing to use torture to get people to do what he wanted.
My stomach twisted at the idea, nearly doubling me over in the hallway right outside my mom's office.
"There you are. You look a lot better," she said, giving me a soft smile. "You were looking like a ghost the last time I saw you."