The drive to the bank was short, the squeaking brakes of my Buick LeSabre letting out a high pitch at every red light.
Oak Creek Bank sat on the corner of Main Street, its red brick facade looking exactly as it had when my father took me there to open my first savings account.
The manager, Mrs. Vance, had handled my family’s affairs for twenty years, and she greeted me with a solemn nod as she ushered me into her small office.
I presented the limited power of attorney and the signed revocation order, sliding them across her polished desk.
She ran a manicured finger over the notary seal on Gary’s document, her face remaining neutral as she read through the legal language.
“This is fully in order, Clara,” Mrs. Vance said.
“Has there been any activity on my father’s estate account today?” I asked.
She tapped her keyboard, her eyes reflecting the blue glow of the monitor as she scrolled through the transaction history.
“An electronic transfer request for eighty-five thousand dollars was initiated at eight-thirty this morning,” she said.
My fingers tightened around the strap of my purse, the leather pressing into my palm.
“Was it completed?” I asked.
“No,” Mrs. Vance said, looking up from the screen. “It was flagged for a secondary signature because of the amount, and now this revocation order freezes it completely.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Vance,” I said. “Please ensure no one can override this.”
“The lock is absolute,” she said. “Not even a court order can release these funds until we resolve the fraud claim.”
I walked out of the bank into the bright October afternoon, the air smelling of dry leaves and asphalt.
The Buick started with its familiar heavy rumble, the steering wheel warm under my hands.
The drive to St. Jude Hospital took twelve minutes, every mile bringing me closer to the place where I had exchanged vows just weeks ago.
I parked in the rear lot, far from the main entrance, to avoid Dr. Paulson’s window on the third floor.
The hospital smell of institutional floor wax hit me as soon as the heavy glass doors slid open.
Nurse Evelyn was waiting near the volunteer desk, her hands clasped in front of her as she adjusted her laminated ID badge.
“I have the folder,” Evelyn said, her voice low and clipped as she looked around the busy lobby. “The unaltered scans are inside.”
She handed me a thick manila envelope, its edges slightly bent from being tucked under her arm.
“Did anyone see you print these?” I asked.
“No,” Evelyn said. “I used the overnight administration terminal before the morning shift change.”
“Will your job be safe, Evelyn?” I asked.
“My license is what matters,” she said, her eyes scanning the lobby again. “This goes to the state fraud division.”
“Gary is filing the official complaint at nine tomorrow morning,” I said.
“Good,” Evelyn said. “Dr. Paulson is scheduled for surgery at ten, but the administration will serve him before he goes in.”
“And Ben?” I asked.
“He still thinks he is being discharged to a rehabilitation clinic on Friday,” she said.
“He won’t be going to a clinic,” I said.
