itchy feeling.
I check my watch.
The bank has been open for thirty-five minutes. I was the first customer through the door, but when the stooped, gray-haired woman came in just after, I agreed to let her go first.
It’s a decision I deeply regret because she’s hellbent on locating six dollars and eighty-two cents missing from her savings account. The assistant manager is going through it with her, line by line. He’s slow. She’s slow. The tellers can’t help me; from what I’ve observed the last half hour, they can barely count.
Sleepy, small-town bank. In fairness, I originally chose it because it was the quietest in the area. The cherry lollipops are good, too.
The itching feeling starts again, stronger than ever, and when I whip around, I see a man of about my age—twenty-three—staring at me. He’s shortish and is wearing a green baseball hat. He’s got what might be an ATM receipt in one hand.
My grip tightens on the tote even though it’s still empty. I can see, vaguely, my own reflection, my wide eyes which look colorless but are really pale blue, my long, platinum blonde hair that flows over my shoulders and down to my waist, the hint of ripe cleavage in the V of my blouse.
I’m trying to keep the panic off my face. I’m certain I don’t know this guy, but the way he’s staring…
Someone might have shown him my photo. I know my family was looking for me in this town; it’s the reason I fled.
“I can help you now, miss,” says the assistant manager; I recognize his slow voice.
Flustered, I stand. I’m unable to look away from the guy outside. His face is blank, unreadable.
Is he waiting for backup? For the cops? Is my grandfather’s limo going to pull up?
The guy checks me out, hands now in his pockets, then his eyebrows twitch.
Grandma Moses shuffles across the lobby, toward the door.
I suddenly go to her, take her arm like she’s a relative and I’ve been waiting for her to finish up.
The woman, who smells incongruously of beer, doesn’t seem startled to find a stranger’s arm entwined with hers. She and I walk through the first set of doors together, and she’s talking about how difficult it will be to get a seat on the bus.
“I can give you a ride,” I say quickly because the guy is still standing out there, though he’s looking uncertain now. “If you wait in my car for three minutes.”
“That would be nice. I don’t live far.” She looks down. “What darling shoes! Are they difficult to walk in?”
I, too, glance down. I’m wearing pinkish, four-inch heels. They match my blouse and offset the darkness of my tight black skirt. “Thanks. And no, they’re very comfortable.” Comfort, of course, is relative, but I feel safer in these shoes and a sexy outfit than I would in an armored truck.
The man is moving away, and by the time I get my new friend into my car, he’s across the street.
“Thank you,” she says. “Bless your heart.” She looks up at me with watery brown eyes. “Such a pretty girl,” she says. “You must have the world wrapped around your finger. Bless you.”
“Three minutes,” I mumble, and I practically run back into the bank. Already, I’ve got the key to my safe deposit box in my hand.
The assistant manager signs me in—Lindsay Jones—and doesn’t ask for identification.
In the vault, we both insert our keys into the locks. The door opens, and he pulls out the box inside and sets it on the table.
The second he’s gone, I’ve got my bag open and I’m shoveling over the box’s contents.
My hands shake, and my stomach does acrobatics.
There’s money, just fifteen hundred dollars. It’s my emergency fund, for times when I can’t access my bank accounts before skipping town. Though it doesn’t always work. My last move, for example. I left everything, which led to misuse of the company credit card at Sunrise Imports. Hawthorne still holds that against me—it’s his grandfather’s business,
I check my watch.
The bank has been open for thirty-five minutes. I was the first customer through the door, but when the stooped, gray-haired woman came in just after, I agreed to let her go first.
It’s a decision I deeply regret because she’s hellbent on locating six dollars and eighty-two cents missing from her savings account. The assistant manager is going through it with her, line by line. He’s slow. She’s slow. The tellers can’t help me; from what I’ve observed the last half hour, they can barely count.
Sleepy, small-town bank. In fairness, I originally chose it because it was the quietest in the area. The cherry lollipops are good, too.
The itching feeling starts again, stronger than ever, and when I whip around, I see a man of about my age—twenty-three—staring at me. He’s shortish and is wearing a green baseball hat. He’s got what might be an ATM receipt in one hand.
My grip tightens on the tote even though it’s still empty. I can see, vaguely, my own reflection, my wide eyes which look colorless but are really pale blue, my long, platinum blonde hair that flows over my shoulders and down to my waist, the hint of ripe cleavage in the V of my blouse.
I’m trying to keep the panic off my face. I’m certain I don’t know this guy, but the way he’s staring…
Someone might have shown him my photo. I know my family was looking for me in this town; it’s the reason I fled.
“I can help you now, miss,” says the assistant manager; I recognize his slow voice.
Flustered, I stand. I’m unable to look away from the guy outside. His face is blank, unreadable.
Is he waiting for backup? For the cops? Is my grandfather’s limo going to pull up?
The guy checks me out, hands now in his pockets, then his eyebrows twitch.
Grandma Moses shuffles across the lobby, toward the door.
I suddenly go to her, take her arm like she’s a relative and I’ve been waiting for her to finish up.
The woman, who smells incongruously of beer, doesn’t seem startled to find a stranger’s arm entwined with hers. She and I walk through the first set of doors together, and she’s talking about how difficult it will be to get a seat on the bus.
“I can give you a ride,” I say quickly because the guy is still standing out there, though he’s looking uncertain now. “If you wait in my car for three minutes.”
“That would be nice. I don’t live far.” She looks down. “What darling shoes! Are they difficult to walk in?”
I, too, glance down. I’m wearing pinkish, four-inch heels. They match my blouse and offset the darkness of my tight black skirt. “Thanks. And no, they’re very comfortable.” Comfort, of course, is relative, but I feel safer in these shoes and a sexy outfit than I would in an armored truck.
The man is moving away, and by the time I get my new friend into my car, he’s across the street.
“Thank you,” she says. “Bless your heart.” She looks up at me with watery brown eyes. “Such a pretty girl,” she says. “You must have the world wrapped around your finger. Bless you.”
“Three minutes,” I mumble, and I practically run back into the bank. Already, I’ve got the key to my safe deposit box in my hand.
The assistant manager signs me in—Lindsay Jones—and doesn’t ask for identification.
In the vault, we both insert our keys into the locks. The door opens, and he pulls out the box inside and sets it on the table.
The second he’s gone, I’ve got my bag open and I’m shoveling over the box’s contents.
My hands shake, and my stomach does acrobatics.
There’s money, just fifteen hundred dollars. It’s my emergency fund, for times when I can’t access my bank accounts before skipping town. Though it doesn’t always work. My last move, for example. I left everything, which led to misuse of the company credit card at Sunrise Imports. Hawthorne still holds that against me—it’s his grandfather’s business,
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