“A woman with a public school teacher’s salary opened a reserve account and left enough money to justify this card? You expect me to believe that?”
“My grandma saved.”
“For what? Forty years?”
Wesley looked at him.
“Yes.”
That answer should have landed.
Should have made the man stop.
Should have forced one decent thought into the room.
Instead Bradley laughed again.
The sound came out flatter this time.
Crueler.
“Everybody has a story,” he said. “Every scammer has a dead relative and a dramatic explanation.”
“I’m not scamming you.”
Bradley leaned forward.
“Then tell me this. If the account is real, why show up like this?”
Wesley blinked.
“Like what?”
Bradley looked him up and down with open disgust.
“Like you rolled out of a shelter.”
Chelsea looked away.
Not because she disagreed.
Because even she knew he had said the quiet part too loudly.
The words seemed to ring in Wesley’s ears.
Like you rolled out of a shelter.
His hands curled into fists under the desk.
Grandma Eleanor used to tell him anger was not bad.
Only what you did with it.
Right then the anger felt hot and helpless and trapped.
“My clothes don’t matter,” he said.
Bradley gave him a slow smile.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
He stood.
Straightened his tie.
Turned toward the lobby with the instinctive posture of a man who liked being watched.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, “thank you for your patience. We are dealing with a possible fraud issue.”
Heads turned.
Conversations stopped.
Wesley’s heart slammed against his ribs.
“Sir—”
Bradley kept going.
“Someone came into this branch claiming access to an account that, frankly, does not appear consistent with his identity or circumstance.”
Identity or circumstance.
That was the polished banker version of the same ugliness.
Wesley felt it.
Everyone else felt it too.
Some people looked uncomfortable.
Others looked satisfied.
A man near the door crossed his arms and said, “Then call the cops.”
Another customer muttered, “You can spot these things a mile away.”
Wesley stood so fast the chair screeched.
