“To the bank.”

He laughed. My father laughed too, loud and cruel, as thunder rolled across the graveyard.

But Mr. Bell did not laugh.

He watched me walk away with the look of a man who had just seen a spark land in gasoline.

Part 2

The bank was nearly empty when I arrived, rainwater dripping onto the marble floor.

A clerk in a navy suit looked up. “Can I help you?”

I placed Grandma’s savings book on the counter.

Her name was printed inside: Margaret Rose Hale. Beneath it, faded stamps marked deposits spanning forty years. The clerk smiled politely at first. Then he entered the account number.

His smile vanished.

He typed again.

The color drained from his face so quickly I thought he might faint.

“Miss Hale,” he said quietly, “please don’t leave.”

My pulse jumped. “Why?”

He grabbed the phone with shaking hands. “Call the police. Call legal. Now.”

Two security guards moved toward the entrance.

I looked down at the small book. “What is this?”

The clerk swallowed. “This account was reported closed seventeen years ago. But it wasn’t. It was hidden. And someone tried to access it this morning.”