I fake-smile, throw them both a thumbs-up, and make my way to my station. Blouse: wrinkled. Black pencil skirt that’s way too tight: survived two panic cycles in the dryer. Flats: scuffed from catching the bus twice this week. But you know what? My name badge is clipped, and my bra is on. That’s a win.
Printer’s jammed again. The lobby smells of expired coffee and financial trauma. I make it thirty full minutes before a guy starts yelling about mobile deposit holds like I control the Federal Reserve.
Stephanie “forgets” to help with the line twice. I answer seven calls, fix an ACH entry, refill the candy bowl, and transfer an elderly woman to fraud claims while being screamed at by someone named Chad.
And then—
“Mary, you got a sec?”
I glance up. Dave is leaning half-out of his glass office with his favorite smile—the one that looks like he practiced it in the mirror.
“Sure,” I say, voice already dry.
He nods like we’re best friends who share wine coolers on the weekend. “Pop in real quick?”
I hesitate outside the door. Part of me wants to fake a coughing fit and claim strep. Or just keep walking straight out the emergency exit and into the arms of minimum-wage freedom. But no, I smile. I knock once. I step in.
Like a good little banking associate.
Dave’s office is weirdly clean. Desk perfectly cleared except for his laptop and one very polished pen. No spilled coffee. No crumpled post-its. Just white walls, a stock photo of a sailboat, and a light musk of cologne that I’m 90% sure Janice also wears.
He doesn’t sit behind his desk as usual. Instead, he leans against it, arms crossed, like he’s trying to be the cool boss who’s “one of the team.” It doesn’t work. He still looks like a middle-aged man who peaked in high school and now takes it out on bank employees.
“Close the door behind you, would you?”
I do, though every instinct I have is screaming to keep my exit route clear. He reaches over and twists the blinds shut with a sharpclick-click-clickthat echoes in the small space.
“Privacy,” he says with a chuckle that sounds like gravel in a garbage disposal. “You know how it is.”
Idon’t, actually, but I nod, anyway because disagreeing with Dave has never improved anyone’s employment status around here.
Then he glances at his laptop before turning his attention back to me.
“Uh… everything okay?” I ask.
“Oh, totally,” he says, leaning against the desk like he’s about to tell me I won Employee of the Month and a free cruise. “Just wanted to touch base real quick.”
I sit. My palms are already sweating.
“So…” he tilts his head, casual, “got your note about W.R. Holdings. Appreciate that. Very thorough.”
I nod once. “It just stood out. The PO box and no contact. Wasn’t sure if it was a duplicate or—”
“Right, right,” he cuts in with a laugh. “You’re sharp, Mary. Really. I value that.”
I don’t like where this is going.
“It’s probably just an internal placeholder,” he says. “You know how outdated some of our third-party ledgers are. It’s just backend movement stuff. Nothing for you to worry about.”
I give a tight smile. “Okay.”
There’s a pause. Then: “You didn’t mention this to anyone else, right?” The question comes out casual, but there’s something sharp underneath it. “Like, share it with the other associates? Or maybe talk about it outside work?”
My mouth goes dry. “No. Just the email to you.”
He nods. “Good. Just between us: best not to get caught up in things that aren’t in your scope, you know? It’s not a concern. But it’s easy to overthink when you’re not in that loop.”
His eyes are too still. Too focused. Like a cat watching a mouse that doesn’t know it’s trapped yet.
