I shouldn’t open it. I know I shouldn’t. Dave literally just told me to stay in my lane.
But my cursor hovers over the file anyway.
Click.
The spreadsheet loads slowly, like it’s reluctant to show me what’s inside. This isn’t a template. It’s a compiled ledger of high-value client accounts, organized in tabs across the bottom.
One tab stands out:Flagged Accounts – Internal Use Only.
My heart starts hammering against my ribs.
Click.
The screen fills with rows and rows of data. Account names, routing numbers, transfer amounts, memos. And right there, third row down: W.R. Holdings.
But it’s not alone.
Dozens of other entities are listed, all with similar traits. Russian surnames jump out at me: Rezhnov Industries, Volkov Enterprises, Petrov Holdings. Round-number wire transfers: $50,000, $75,000, $100,000. Vague memos like “Consulting Services” and “Import Fees.” The same PO boxes used over and over.
And there’s a column I’ve never seen in any legitimate banking document:Cleaner Contacted – Status.
Some entries are marked “Resolved.” Others: “Pending.”
What the hell is a “cleaner” in banking terms?
My hands are shaking as I scroll down. More names. More patterns. All of it organized like some kind of… system.
A system for what?
The office door chimes, and I nearly jump out of my skin. But it’s just a customer, an elderly man with a cane, heading toward the information desk.
I look back at the screen, my pulse thundering in my ears. This isn’t just suspicious activity. This is… organized. Methodical. Like someone’s been using our bank to move dirty money, and Dave’s been helping them cover it up.
The column labeled “Cleaner Contacted” stares back at me.
I think about Mrs. Vasquez, trusting us with her life savings. About all the honest customers who assume their bank follows the law.
About Dave’s too-careful questions and fake smile.
My finger hovers over the print button. The machine whirs to life behind me, mechanical and loud in the empty lobby.
Click-click-click-click.
I practically sprint to the printer, my heart hammering against my ribcage. The pages are still warm when I grab them, and I fold them quickly, shoving them into my purse without looking. I don’t know why I printed them. I don’t know what I’m going to do with them. I just know that Dave is involved with some very bad people, and my gut is screaming that I need evidence.
The desk phone rings, shrill and sudden in the silence. I jump so hard my knee hits the desk drawer.
“Brightside National, this is Mary—”
“Stop digging if you want to live.”
The voice is deep. Male. Unfamiliar. And absolutely terrifying in its calm certainty.
My blood turns to ice. “I’m sorry, what—?”
The line goes dead.
11
