“Can I see your ID, please?”
Sylvie handed it over.
The teller’s expression changed. Not to alarm exactly, but to something careful and uncertain.
“Is there a problem?” Sylvie asked.
“Can you confirm your full name?”
“Sylvie. Sylvie Ann Walsh.”
“And Walter Walsh is—”
“My husband on paper. My former husband in every way that has mattered for the past five years.”
The teller looked at the screen for a moment. “I need to get my branch manager. Please wait just a moment.”
“He didn’t cancel it, did he?”
“No, ma’am. Nothing like that.” The young woman’s voice had gone to something quieter. “We should have been in touch with you earlier, actually. I apologize for that.”
Sylvie held her purse strap in both hands and waited.
What the Branch Manager Brought Out, and the Number on the Screen That Made Her Sit Down Hard
Mr. Cooper came out from the back with a sealed envelope in his hand. He was somewhere in his forties, with reading glasses on a chain and the manner of a man who took his work seriously.
“Mrs. Walsh?”
“Yes.”
He verified her ID. “You’re the authorized cardholder on this account. That’s why we can speak with you directly.”
“You look worried for a simple withdrawal.”
He held the envelope carefully. “Walter left specific instructions. We were to give you this the first time you used the card.”
She stared at the envelope. Walter’s handwriting was on the front — the slightly crooked cursive he had always had, the specific architecture of it that she would have recognized anywhere.
“He told me there was two thousand dollars on that card.”
“There was. Five years ago.”
Her stomach went still. “Five years ago.”
“Please,” Mr. Cooper said, “come sit down.”
He took her into his office, printed a single page, and set it in front of her.
The current balance on the account was $48,216.73.
Sylvie looked at the number for a long moment.
“That’s not mine,” she said.
“It is.”
“Walter told me two thousand.”
