Murder on Potrero Hill by M. L. Hamilton

reader.
    The bus driver nodded him back toward the seats and he grabbed the first one on the aisle, sliding into it and settling the briefcase by his feet. Reaching into his back pocket, he grabbed his wallet and using the side of his hand, slid the debit card free. Turning it over, he studied the magnetic strip. It didn’t look damaged, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t demagnetized.
    The bus bumped over a rut in the road and he grabbed the bar on the headrest to steady himself. Replacing the card, he put his wallet in his pocket and settled back in the seat, taking another sip of the coffee. He shouldn’t have come to work today. This was a bad idea. The debit card not working was a sign. It was too soon, he was too raw to get back into the swing of things. He’d check in with Andrews and then leave. There was no way he could face talking with people today.
    By the time the bus pulled up at the Market stop, he had calmed himself a bit. He rose with the other passengers and exited. The cool breeze blowing off the bay actually felt good as he walked toward the bank.
    Pausing at the entrance, he drew a deep breath, his hand tightening around the handle on the briefcase. Just go inside, he told himself, it’ll get easier from there. He walked to the glass doors and followed a young woman into the foyer. Two ATM machines blinked advertisements from the wall on his left. Directly in front of him were the inner doors to the bank. He could see people already waiting in line to speak with a teller.
    The young woman veered off and went to the ATM. Jake walked to the inner door and pushed it open, stepping into the bank. He immediately turned right and set the coffee and his bank keys on his desk, then walked beyond it to the credenza beneath the plate-glass windows, which looked out over Market.
    He slid back the door on the credenza and settled the briefcase on the bottom shelf, below the neat stacks of fliers for various products the bank offered. The credenza was between his desk and the one to the immediate right of him, but since the financial crisis, the bank had cut back to one loan officer and he was it. He had use of both desks and the credenza without complaint.
    Sliding the door shut again, he returned to his desk. He hadn’t even made it to his chair when he stopped short. He’d forgotten about the picture of Zoë that he kept on the right-hand corner. He could see her smile, the line of her cheek, the way her blond hair framed her face. He felt his heart pick up speed, his chest constrict. He swallowed hard, fighting for composure. He didn’t want to break in here. Not now, not in this place.
    “Jake,” came Sam’s voice, snapping his attention.
    Jake tore his gaze from Zoë’s picture and stared at his friend. Sam’s eyes moved from Jake to the photo and back again. Without missing a beat, he picked up Zoë’s picture and circled around the desk, pulling open a drawer and placing it inside. He shut the drawer and moved toward Jake.
    “One thing at a time, okay?”
    “I have her pictures all over the house and I haven’t taken them down. I spend hours staring at them.”
    Sam grasped his shoulder, his fingers digging in enough to ground Jake. “Yeah, but this is different. Here you have to pretend.”
    Jake focused on his friend’s face and nodded. “It’s too soon. I shouldn’t have come back.”
    Sam started to respond, but the bank manager, Evan Andrews, appeared behind him, coming toward Jake at a rapid clip. Jake turned toward him as Andrews came to a stop.
    “Jake, I didn’t expect to see you.”
    “I know, sir, but I thought maybe it was time I come back.” He glanced around at the customers. “I’m not sure it was a good idea, though.”
    Andrews shifted his attention to Sam. “Would you give us a moment, Sam?”
    Sam backed up a few steps. “Sure.” He moved toward the teller line, glancing over his shoulder at Jake.
    Jake shrugged at him, then turned to his boss. “I know this