I looked at the clock. “Does now count?”
She didn’t laugh, but the FDIC man did—a little cough, like the sound a mouse would make if it found a crumb of cocaine.
The sheriff drifted to the side, presumably to show that he wasn’t here for a bust, but just in case anyone tried to run, he could tackle them before they made it to the parking lot.
“Please, have a seat,” the manager said, gesturing to the fake leather chairs in front of the glass-walled office. We sat. Knox took the one next to me, then moved it closer so our knees touched. I was glad he did. Otherwise, I might have started gnawing my own fingers off at the knuckle.
They made us wait eight minutes before the actual paperwork even started, because “there are protocols.” Sheriff Hardesty took the opportunity to sample every complimentary mint on the manager’s desk.
Mr. Mintz—the FDIC man—produced an entire file folder from his satchel, complete with color-coded tabs and little sticky notes that said things like “DO NOT SIGN” and “SEE FEDERAL GUIDELINES.”
The manager introduced herself as “Linda,” then immediately asked for four forms of ID. “State, federal, bank, and—what’s this?” She squinted at my library card. “Is this a joke?”
“It’s got my name on it,” I said, holding it like a VIP pass. “I’m a lifetime member.”
Linda did not laugh. She placed the card on the table, like it might contaminate the mortgage contract, and began gathering papers together.
We were halfway through the second round of paperwork—me producing my ID and Knox reading the fine print upside-down like it was war poetry—when the temperature in the lobby dropped a full ten degrees.
I didn’t have to look up to know why. I could feel the chill in my DNA. Still, when I did glance up, there he was, my father, James Bridger, in a suit so expensive it probably had its ownsecurity detail, hair combed to an aerodynamic sheen, and jaw clenched like he was chewing iron rebar.
He didn’t acknowledge the other customers or the sheriff or the fact that he was, at this moment, essentially the villain in a very slow, very legal showdown.
His eyes locked on me and Knox, and for a brief, blissful second, I was fourteen again and my only crime was not knowing how to tie a Windsor knot.
“My son is here to handle private family business,” he announced, projecting his voice to every cubic inch of the lobby, “so if you could give us a moment—”
The manager, to her credit, didn’t even blink. “Mr. Bridger, we’re in the middle of a transaction. If you’d like to schedule—”
He cut her off with a hand chop. “This loan was called in on my authority. There’s no need for further humiliation. We’ll settle it as a family.”
He said “family” like the word tasted bad.
It probably did.
Knox’s hand went from casual to anchor, fingers spreading so wide I wondered if he was preparing to physically glue me to the chair.
The FDIC man, who had been half dozing, now perked up with the focus of a cat that had just heard the can opener. He produced a notebook from his jacket and began scribbling with tiny, furious motions.
Sheriff Hardesty cleared his throat. “Mr. Bridger, your son is of legal age and here of his own free will. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t attempt to interfere with a lawful banking transaction.”
James Bridger glared at the sheriff, as if this was the first time anyone in uniform had ever disagreed with him. “I’m not interfering. I’m trying to prevent a scene.”
“Too late for that,” Knox muttered.
I tried to shrink into my shirt. It didn’t work. The button-up was too crisp, too perfectly fitted for withdrawal.
James circled the desk, positioning himself so he blocked out half the sunlight in the room. “Newton,” he said, in a voice that could have frozen lava, “you are not to proceed with this. I can and will revoke your access to the trust if you disobey me.”
I felt the panic surge, hot and sick, but then I remembered Knox, and Aunt Georgia, and Harlow’s thumbs-up, and the way Pa had looked at me, proud and fierce. My insides rearranged themselves into something less liquid.
“I’m here to finish what I started,” I said, and if my voice shook, at least it didn’t break. “You called in the loan, so I’m paying it.”
James leaned in, close enough that I could count the pores on his nose. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
I glanced at the manager, who was pretending to organize paperclips but whose hands were trembling, just a little.
“Actually,” I said, “I think I do.”
