He looked at me, then at Knox, then at the sheriff, as if he could find a sympathetic face. He could not.
He changed tactics. “You realize,” he said, shifting his focus to the FDIC man, “that this is a clear case of predatory lending? The original loan was established under different terms, and my son is being coerced into a payoff under duress.”
The FDIC man didn’t even look up. He just jotted a few more notes and murmured, “Interesting. Very interesting indeed.”
James’s face went the color of undercooked steak. He turned back to me, voice going tight. “You ungrateful little—”
“Now, now,” I said, and my own voice surprised me with how calm it sounded. “Let’s use our indoor voices and appropriate language. We’re in a bank.”
James inhaled, then exhaled, then lost the war with his own temper. He raised his arm like he was going to backhand meright there in front of the entire town, the sheriff, and a federal observer.
He never got the chance.
Knox’s hand shot up, catching James’s wrist before it even crossed the midpoint. He stood, all six-foot-four of him, and for a second the entire bank was silent except for the sound of my own heart, which I’m pretty sure had stopped.
Knox didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “Touch him,” he said, “and they’ll never find all the pieces.”
The threat hung in the air, perfect and gleaming.
The sheriff coughed again, but this time he was hiding a grin. “Let’s all just take a breath, gentlemen.”
I did. It was the first one I’d remembered in minutes.
The bank manager regained control. “Mr. Bridger, unless you have legitimate business here, I’m going to have to ask you to wait in the lobby.”
James looked like he might explode. Like there was a small, malevolent sun behind his forehead, searching for the most public and permanent way to destroy us all.
But he let Knox push his arm away, straightened his jacket, and stalked back to the entry, where he stood with his fists balled and his jaw doing the cement mixer thing.
The FDIC man leaned over and, in a voice so soft I almost missed it, said, “You’re doing great, by the way. Not everyone stands up to their fathers.”
I smiled, small and crooked, and turned to Knox. He sat back down, hand still holding mine, fingers interlaced now. For the first time all day, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I’d come out of this alive.
Bank manager’s offices look identical the world over—beige carpet, battered desk with a drawer that doesn’t close, ergonomic chairs that are neither.
The only thing separating this one from a prison cell was the thin pane of glass between us and the rest of the world, through which I could see my father staring like a rejected Renaissance pope, incensed and plotting my moral downfall.
The next two hours were a blur of signature lines. Every time I thought we were done, another form appeared, each with more legal jargon than the last.
I signed my name so many times that it stopped looking like words and started looking like a distress signal. On the twelfth form, my hand cramped up and I had to shake it out like a pitcher in the bottom of the ninth.
James never stopped watching. He lurked on the other side of the glass, sometimes pacing, sometimes pretending to answer emails, but always, always there.
At one point, our eyes met and he mouthed,“Don’t do this.”
I considered flipping him off but decided that was less effective than just ignoring him.
Linda was efficient to the point of robotic. She rifled through the forms, initialed the spots for bank compliance, and had a rubber stamp for literally everything: “Received.” “Notarized.” “Approved.” My favorite was “SIGNATURE MATCH VERIFIED,” which she thumped on every page with the same dead-eyed intensity.
The FDIC rep, meanwhile, was more interested in the bank’s process than my own. Every time Linda hesitated or made a face, he scribbled a note and muttered, “Interesting. That’s… very interesting.”
After the fourth round of signatures, he asked, “And you’re sure the loan was called in under ordinary circumstances?”
Linda froze. “That’s… what the paperwork says.”
He nodded, “Yes, but that’s not what I asked.”
She looked at me, then at the sheriff, who smiled and popped another mint. “I believe so,” Linda said, but less certain now.
