“Claire Eleanor Hayes.”
The color drained even further from her face.
“Oh my God…”
Then the bank manager appeared from a back office.
Tall.
Gray suit.
Security badge clipped to his belt.
The moment he saw the passbook, his entire expression changed.
“Where did you get that?” he demanded.
“It belonged to my grandmother.”
“What was her name?”
“Eleanor Hayes.”
The manager and Linda exchanged a look so sharp and frightened that my pulse exploded in my chest.
And suddenly I understood something terrifying.
This wasn’t about money.
The manager lowered his voice carefully.
“Miss Hayes… how long ago did Eleanor pass away?”
“This morning.”
He closed his eyes briefly like the answer physically hurt him.
Then he whispered:
“She waited too long.”
A cold wave moved through me.
“What are you talking about?”
But before he could answer, two police officers entered through the locked doors.
The entire bank fell silent.
One officer approached carefully.
“Miss Claire Hayes?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“Ma’am, we need you to come with us.”
Every survival instinct inside me screamed at once.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“We know,” the older officer said gently.
“That’s why we’re here before someone else gets to you.”
The room tilted.
Someone else.
The manager stepped closer and slid the passbook back toward me very carefully, almost respectfully now.
“Do not let this out of your possession,” he said quietly.
“No matter who asks for it.”
Fear crawled up my spine.
“What is this?”
The older officer looked around the bank before answering.
“Not here.”
—
Twenty minutes later, I sat inside a private conference room at the downtown precinct with the passbook on the table between us.
Rain hammered the windows outside while detectives moved rapidly through the hallway beyond the glass.
The older officer introduced himself as Detective Alvarez.
Across from him sat a woman from the bank’s fraud division whose face still looked pale.
Alvarez folded his hands.
“Miss Hayes… did your grandmother ever mention a man named Walter Greene?”
