“Certainly.”
As she types on her keyboard, my gaze drifts to the other clerk trapped behind the Plexiglass with her. I watch the man unwrap a lollipop from the small bowl between them and shove it into his cheek before he pulls out his phone. A tattoo is just visible on his neck, above the collar of his short-sleeved button-up shirt.
“And do you have your debit card with you, ma’am?” the teller assisting me asks.
“Shoot. I knew I forgot something,” I say.
Jake, per our prearranged strategy, says, “Cadence, I reminded you before we left. I’m sorry, ma’am. She’d forget her head if it wasn’t attached.”
“I know my account number, if that helps,” I offer, along with an apologetic smile.
“Do you have your ID on you?”
“I do.”
I pull it out of my dress pocket and slide it to her.
“Since you don’t have your debit card with you, I’ll need you to enter your Social Security number for me.”
I tap the number I memorized this morning into the keypad.
“Thank you, Ms. Glover.”
Her coworker’s head snaps in my direction.
“And how would you like the funds?”
“A cashier’s check, please,” I say, pretending I didn’t notice the way I gained the tattooed man’s attention the instant she said the name Glover, his gaze latching onto me with undisguised suspicion.
He gives me a long, hard stare, his eyes narrowing before he walks to the end of the teller station. His focus stays on me as he lifts his cell to his ear. My heart races, galloping like a runaway horse as I realize what’s happening. Instinctively, I reach for Jake’s hand but stop myself before I make contact.
I peek at him from the corners of my eyes. He appears not to have noticed the man’s strange behavior. The man who’s still staring, his scrutiny needling its way beneath my skin. It would be better if it stayed that way.
“And who would you like that made out to?” our clerk asks.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Cash, please.”
She nods and continues typing. It won’t be long now. Just a few more minutes and Jake and I can get out of here. Feeling emboldened, I look right at the man and smile. He doesn’t return it. “Also, would it be possible for me to get a closing statement?”
“Of course. I’ll print off a copy of all recent activity that’s occurred since your account last totaled.”
“Thank you. How long will I continue to have access to my statements online?”
“I’m afraid you won’t once the account closes.”
“Oh.” I act like it’s a surprise.
“Will that be an issue? I can see if I can print off your last few statements for you, if that will help.”
Resisting the urge to ask how long it will take, I say, “That would be great.”
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I pretend that nothing is wrong because nothing is—yet.
Jake’s hand touches against the damp fabric at the small of my back. Glancing at him, I find he’s noticed that I’ve drawn the tattooed man’s attention. But he doesn’t know why. And I don’t want the man looking at Jake too closely.
I squeeze between Jake and the counter, drawing his focus and keeping it on me until his back is angled to the guy. Then I lean against him, tucking myself under his arm like I’m using him as a shield, the way you might when a creepy stranger is making you uncomfortable by looking at you a little too intensely.
“Here you go, ma’am. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
