Chapter 10
Mary
Iswipe my badge at the side door and walk into Brightside National like I’m being led to a guillotine. The A/C blasts me in the face, all minty and cold and somehow smug, like it knows I barely slept.
Last night’s shadow still sticks to the back of my brain, even though I keep trying to shake it off like a spiderweb I maybe imagined.
Inside, everything’s just as beige and fluorescent as ever.
Stephanie spots me before I make it to my desk. She’s wearing some kind of fitted coral pantsuit with heels that click like she choreographed them. Her lip gloss is aggressively pink. Her smile isn’t.
“Oh wow,” she says, voice like someone reviewing a failed appetizer. “Bold move, Mary. Going for clearance rack chic before the quarterly visit?”
I don’t look up from my tote bag. “Thanks. It’s called functioning under capitalism.”
Janice lets out a nasal snort behind the counter and taps her acrylics against the tablet she’s pretending to check appointments on. “Don’t be salty just ‘cause not everyone got the memo about power colors.”
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 sharp click-click-click that echoes in the small space.
“Privacy,” he says with a chuckle that sounds like gravel in a garbage disposal. “You know how it is.”
I don’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.
“Of course,” I say, because what else can I say? Sorry for doing my job too well? My bad for noticing suspicious financial activity?
“Great. I knew you’d understand.” He straightens up, checking his watch like this conversation has been such a burden on his precious time. “That’s what I love about working with professionals.”
Professional. Right. Like there’s anything professional about this weird little performance he just put on.
I back toward the door, my hand already reaching for the handle. “Is that all?”
“That’s all.” His smile could power a small city, it’s so blindingly fake. “Thanks for stopping by.”
I practically flee his office, closing the door behind me.
Stephanie is on me the second I turn the corner. “Hope your private meeting was productive. But the line’s building, and last I checked, you’re still on lobby rotation.”
I blink at her, biting back the first thing that comes to mind. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”
She ignores that. “You’ve got a client waiting. Geraldine something. Again.”
Of course it’s Geraldine.
I pull on a smile so fake it should be tax deductible and step out from behind the desk, calling softly, “Mrs. Landry? Come on over, I’ve got you.”
Geraldine Landry walks as though the wind’s trying to blow her over. She’s eighty-four, wears orthopedic sandals with rhinestones, and smells of lilacs and menthol. Her cardigan is buttoned wrong again.
“Oh, Mary, darling,” she says, gripping my forearm with both hands. “I didn’t want to bother you, but I think I lost my bank password again. I tried three times, and it locked me out. What does ‘suspicious activity’ mean?”
“It means the system’s too dramatic, just like us,” I say, gently guiding her to my chair.
She chuckles, and I squat next to her while I reset her login. She keeps talking—about how her husband Jack passed in March, how quiet the house is now, how the tea never tastes right without someone to argue with.
I nod, fix her password, help her pick a new one she’ll remember. “TulipJack57,” I suggest. “After your wedding flowers?”
She pats my cheek. “You’re wasted here, sweetheart.”
I wish someone would tell HR that.
Behind us, Stephanie’s giving me dagger eyes. I know what she’s thinking. Five minutes per client, max. Move the line. Sell the credit card. Smile like your job depends on it. Because it does.
But Geraldine needs someone to talk to. And I’m not going to rush a woman who’s buried the love of her life just so I can get back to answering emails from a man who signs them “Best!” while screwing the office assistant.
“Come back next week if you need help again,” I say, walking her to the exit.
“I always do,” she says with a wink. “But mostly I just like seeing your face.”
My throat tightens. “Then I’ll be here.”
She waves and shuffles out into the Vegas heat.
By the time lunch rolls around, the lobby finally empties. Stephanie disappears for her daily Botox consultation or whatever she does during breaks. Janice claimed a “waxing emergency” and bailed early.
Finally. Quiet.
I decide to catch up on the reporting templates I’m behind on. Partially to stay busy, partially to avoid spiraling about the weirdness in Dave’s office. I navigate to the shared folder I’ve used a dozen times: Client_Export_Templates > Q2 > Supplementals.
But something looks… wrong. Out of pattern.
There’s a file I’ve never seen before: Internal_Audit_WR-Ledgers_DO_NOT_MOVE
I stare at it for a long moment. The W.R. catches my eye immediately. As in W.R. Holdings. As in the account that just got me a private meeting with Dave’s fake smile and creepy questions.
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.