Wesley’s stomach tightened.
“I told you.”
The teller nearest them, Chelsea Morrison, glanced over.
Bradley lifted the card.
“Chelsea.”
She approached.
“Look at this.”
Chelsea examined it.
Her eyebrows rose.
“Interesting.”
Wesley disliked the word.
Bradley looked at him.
“Name?”
“Wesley Brooks.”
“Address?”
Wesley gave Lawrence’s address.
Bradley frowned.
“That neighborhood?”
“Yes.”
“Your grandmother lived there too?”
“No.”
“Where did she live?”
“Maple Court.”
Bradley exchanged a look with Chelsea.
Maple Court was one of the least expensive apartment complexes in the city.
Bradley smiled again.
Slowly.
“Well.”
Wesley felt his face warming.
“I just need to check the balance.”
Bradley looked toward his shoes.
“You came here alone?”
“My uncle is coming.”
“When?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“Convenient.”
Wesley swallowed.
“Can you please just check?”
Bradley placed the card on the counter.
Then pushed it.
Too hard.
It skidded across the marble.
Passed Wesley.
Fell onto the floor.
The sound was tiny.
But Wesley felt as though the entire lobby heard it.
He stared down.
Nobody spoke.
Bradley said:
“Pick that up.”
Wesley looked at him.
Something inside him hurt.
Not anger yet.
Confusion.
Why was this happening?
He bent down.
Picked up the card.
One of his shoelaces had come loose.
Bradley noticed.
He laughed again.
“Those shoes look like they’ve walked farther than your story.”
Another customer chuckled.
Wesley stood.
His hands trembled.
“My grandma bought them.”
Bradley shrugged.
“I’m sure she did.”
Chelsea returned to her station.
She was smiling too.
Not widely.
Enough.
Wesley pressed the card against the envelope.
“Can somebody please help me?”
Bradley sighed dramatically.
“Fine.”
Hope returned.
For perhaps two seconds.
Bradley pointed toward the far corner of the lobby.
Three metal chairs sat beside the hallway leading to the restrooms and janitor’s closet.
“Sit there.”
Wesley looked.
“Why?”
“Because I need to verify what kind of situation we're dealing with.”
“I have the papers.”
“I said sit.”
The security guard near the entrance looked over.
Jerome Davis.
Mid-fifties.
Gray beginning around his temples.
He had watched everything.
Wesley glanced toward him.
Jerome looked away.
Wesley walked to the metal chairs.
His shoes squeaked slightly on the polished floor.
He sat.
The chair was cold.
He placed the brown envelope on his lap.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Customers entered.