House of Glass by Sophie Littlefield

more standing in line waiting for tellers. Most of the customers were elderly. None of them looked like they were dressed for work.
    A man who couldn’t be more than twenty-five stepped toward them, smiling.
    “May I help you?”
    Jen felt the slight pressure of Dan’s hand on the small of her back. She forced a smile. “I need to make a withdrawal. A significant one, actually...I’d like to close out a money market account.”
    “I see. All right. I’m happy to help. Why don’t we sit...over here, please.”
    He led them to the only empty cubicle, and Jen and Dan took seats in the two chairs across the desk from him.
    “If I could have your debit card, I’ll be able to access all your accounts....”
    Jen took it out of her wallet and slid it across the desk. She watched the man carefully as his fingers tapped at the keyboard. The little nameplate on his desk read Terrence Jurgenssen, which seemed like a lot of name for his bland features.
    “And which of your accounts are you interested in withdrawing funds from, Mrs. Glass?”
    “The money market account ending in 4611.”
    “And you want to take the funds in...?”
    “A cashier’s check, please.”
    “All right.” He reached for a slip of paper and began to write. “Now with a cash withdrawal of over five thousand dollars, I will need to ask my supervisor to join us.”
    Jen watched him write. He worked slowly, his movements laborious and careful. Terrence Jurgenssen’s handwriting was precise, and Jen had no trouble reading the figure he wrote, even upside down.
    Ten thousand eighty-two dollars and sixteen cents.
    “Wait,” she said. “Wait. What is my balance, please?”
    “Ten thousand eighty-two dollars and sixteen cents.”
    When Jen didn’t respond, immobilized by shock, Terrence spun his monitor around so she and Dan could see the screen. There—there was the list of accounts: Livvy’s, with eight hundred some dollars at the top, and then the household account and their personal accounts—and then the personal line of credit that had been at zero since the day she opened it all those years ago, a prudent precaution she’d never had to use and never meant to.
    And there it was. Just as he’d told her, just as he’d written on the little slip of paper: $10,082.16.
    Dan leaned close, his hot breath on her face. Terrence looked away, clasping his hands on his lap. “What the fuck,” Dan whispered, too low for Terrence to hear. “That’s not enough. I want all of it. I know there’s more.”
    How did he know? With every new revelation, each bit of evidence that Dan had somehow wormed his way even more deeply into their lives, she found it more excruciating to be near him. She wanted to jump out of the chair and run. Freedom was tantalizingly close—he couldn’t hurt her here, she could be out the door and gone in seconds.
    And then he would return to her home. Her family. Where he could take his fury out on them.
    Jen pressed her knees together, trying to contain her horror. She nodded, her mouth dry. “If you could...if I could see the recent transaction detail,” she said, hearing the tremor in her own voice.
    Terrence clicked obligingly, and after a very brief pause the screen populated with the recent transactions. The monthly interest on the thirty-first. There, down at the bottom, the January adjustment she made every year, transferring the accrued interest into checking to keep the balance right at seventy thousand.
    And at the top, dated three days ago, a withdrawal of sixty thousand dollars.

Chapter Eleven
    “That one,” Jen said hoarsely. “At the top. The withdrawal...”
    “Yes.” Terrence moved the cursor over the numbers. “That would have been, let’s see, Monday. Right here in the Hastings West Plaza branch, and it looks like it was also taken in the form of a cashier’s check.”
    “But I don’t...” Ted, dear God, what had Ted done, what had he been thinking? She checked her accounts every Sunday