Inside smells like dirty women and cigars. A woman sits behind a thick pane of scratched plexiglass, tapping at a keyboard with long, manicured nails. She doesn’t look up when I approach. I don’t mind. The more impersonal, the better.
I slide the envelope through the metal tray beneath the glass, then say, “Cash transfer.”
The thick bundle in the envelope demands eye contact. She finally looks at me. Her eyes are clouded with an exhaustion no amount of makeup can hide, and she appears suspicious, but she doesn’t ask questions. She just counts the money with quick, practiced movements, the bills snapping as she stacks them.
“Destination?”
Lips shaking, I recite the offshore account number, which changes every couple ofmonths.
My throat grows scratchy when she asks me to confirm the amount she counted is correct. “Twenty thousand?”
I nod, hopefully that’s all she needs to move this transfer forward.
I breathe more easily when she types the five-digit number into her computer before she mutters, “Processing.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. My damp clothes stick to me as noticeably as anxiety paints my face. This deposit is earlier than planned and more than I was told to pay. I’m hoping it’ll give me a little leeway, though it’s unlikely.
The buzzing in my limbs augments as I watch the monitor on the other side of the glass, waiting for confirmation that my payment has gone through.
Seconds stretch into minutes as my impatience fogs the plexiglass.
Finally, the woman nods. “The transfer was approved by the receiver.”
Relief bombards me, but I can’t relax yet.
“I need a printout with the barcode,” I say quickly. “The one with all the details on it.”
She raises a dark brow. “You know the purpose of an offshore account is to be discreet, right?”
Nodding, I repeat, “I need the printout.”
Shrugging, she stabs a button. The printer splutters to life before spitting out a thin strip of paper. She slides it through the tray, and I snatch it up before it has even finished floating. The printout warms my snap-frozen fingers as I scan the barcode, searching for the location code and timestamp hidden in the long string of digits at the bottom of the printout.
My eyes dart over every digit, making sure nothing is off. The numbers match. The location is correct. The transfer was accepted by someone near Carlisle.
I’m still where I’m meant to be.
My shoulders relax as I exhale a sigh of relief.
“Thanks.” After folding the receipt, I tuck it into the inner pocketof my jacket, the one with the zipper. I never use it unless it’s for something important.
The teller is already looking past me, calling the next person forward, so I step back into the cold. The walk back to my new building feels longer since my legs are heavy and my feet are numb.
The city comes alive around me as people rush to work and buses groan to a stop, but I’m watching it through fractured glass. That’s how exhausted I am.
I can’t rest yet, though. I need to put myself out there again for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
It worked well for me with Dante.
I can only hope to achieve similar results this time.
When I reach the building, Harris isn’t at the desk anymore. His clipboard remains where he left it, a pen resting on top, and the cleaning product smell is now stronger since it’s mingled with the aroma of recently brewed coffee drifting down the hallway.
With my thighs still shaky, I take the elevator to the twelfth floor. My reflection in the brushed steel is worse now—paler and hollower—but the receipt in my pocket anchors me.
Once I’m in the safety of my apartment, I pull out the receipt and smooth it flat on the counter, then count down the minutes.
At exactly 10 a.m., I dial a number that changes as often as the offshore account I just garnished with my hard-earned money. My fingers know the pattern by heart.
