34
Sheena
Closed.
I pulled into the front parking space of the credit union and stared at the sign on the door until the black letters blurred in front of my eyes. There were people moving around inside, employees wearing green-collared polos, getting ready for the day. It was only 8:45 a.m., and the bank didn ’ t open until 9:00 a.m.
Just open a few minutes early today, I begged them mentally, each time one of the employees walked past the glass entry door.
My face felt puffy and drained at the same time. I was a soggy husk of the person I ’ d been two days earlier.
I hadn ’ t slept last night. Not even for a few minutes. Because when I closed my eyes, all I could see were Sage and Bonnie ’ s faces. All I could see was Dad ’ s look of defeat and betrayal when I ’ d left him at Cherished Hearts, promising I ’ d call in the morning. All I could imagine were the headlines I ’ d read about botched ransom kidnappings and the stories Dad told me where he wished he ’ d gone with his gut over protocol.
Listen to your gut, Sheen. Screw the rest. That ’ s what I kept imagining Dad ’ s voice telling me, words he ’ d said a hundred times. I just wanted my children home safe and sound.
I blinked hard, trying to focus, trying to pretend I wasn ’ t about to embezzle bond money from the city while my two daughters were being held for ransom God knew where.
I let myself look at the dash clock for the hundredth time that morning. Eight forty-seven. Everything was moving too slow and too fast at the same time, like that heady feeling right as the roller coaster car started to zoom down the first hill.
To my right, another car pulled into a spot in the parking lot directly beside me. An elderly woman with a little black dog on her lap. She turned off the ignition and rummaged in her purse, squinting at the closed sign. I averted my eyes and unbuckled my seatbelt, getting ready to move, unwilling to take any chances that I wouldn ’ t be the first customer in the bank.
Keeping one eye on the old lady, I unlocked my car doors and reached for the folder I ’ d prepared this morning with all the evidence I ’ d need to withdraw $9,758 dollars from the first bank—the exact amount of the bid I ’ d confirmed for new play equipment at Longfellow Elementary.
It wasn ’ t quite ten thousand dollars. The other five banks would be the same. In the end, I ’ d have a shortfall of $8,752. But there was no other way to make the math, the budget, and the vendor bids line up.
I had three thousand dollars of my own money in an emergency savings fund. I ’ d pull that out at my last stop for the day. However, even that would leave me a shortfall of more than five thousand dollars.
Just get it done, I told myself, unwilling to think about the fact that I was brushing up against failure already. It ’ ll be enough. You ’ ll figure something out.
A flurry of movement to my right caught my eye, and I jerked up my head in time to see the elderly woman opening her car door.
Without hesitating, I grabbed my folder and purse, flung open my own car door, and ran the short distance to the front door of the credit union.
Behind me, the dog barked and the woman snapped at it to shut up. Then, more quietly—but not so quietly I couldn ’ t hear her—she muttered to herself, “ Raised wrong. Nobody respects their elders anymore, do they?”
I clenched my jaw and ignored her, refusing to turn around and make eye contact with her. Instead, I mentally rehearsed what I was going to say when that closed sign finally swung to open.
Walk inside. Show them your ID.
Smile and fill out the withdrawal form.
Tell them you ’ re doing just fine when they ask.
Give them the folder with the Longfellow playground expenses if they hesitate at all.
Get the hell out and get to the next bank.
There was no reason to think this would be anything but easy. I ’ d withdrawn sums larger than this before, plenty of times. I ’ d even forged my boss ’ s signature before—with his permission—to satisfy the “ dual signature” requirement that usually felt like cutting a corner on red tape. As city treasurer, I was in charge of a revolving door of payments, vendors, and projects that sent me to the bank at least twice a week to deposit or withdraw different sums. Usually in the form of a cashier ’ s check, but cash wasn ’ t unheard of.
The woman behind me edged a few inches closer to my back, still tutting to herself. I moved forward too, so close to the doors that I was basically pressing up against the glass. A teller who looked to be maybe twenty-five years old looked up from his place behind the desk and made eye contact with me. I smiled as big as I could, hoping it would draw him out to open the door.
He just smiled back, then resumed whatever he was doing behind the desk, taking his time moving papers around and turning to chat with a coworker.
I let out a measured breath but didn ’ t let my smile fall. I turned my body so the woman behind me wouldn ’ t see my phone, so I could check the time again.
Eight fifty-one.
There was no way I was going to make it through the day. This was torture.
Desperate for a way to make the time move faster, I opened my phone and scanned the missed calls and text messages I ’ d ignored from this morning. There was a short one from Bright Beginnings, promising more updates and pleading with parents to refrain from coming into the rec center trying to get information. A missed call from the police officer I ’ d spoken to in the parking lot yesterday, then a text asking me to come back into the station at my earliest convenience for a more thorough interview.
That one made my blood run cold.
If only that officer knew what I was doing right now.
A familiar shiver of doubt prickled down my back. Was I doing the right thing? The question thundered through my brain again, finding the same panicked desperation in response.
The last text was a long one from Chez from next door, about how sorry he was about the girls, and to let him know if I needed any help with Dad.
Guilt grabbed me hard by the throat, and I took another deep breath and closed my phone. Two minutes until opening.
I ’ d call Cherished Hearts on the way to the next bank.
The teller behind the desk looked up again, accidentally catching my eye through the glass once more. His mouth quirked down ever so slightly. Without thinking, I lifted my free hand in the air and waved frantically. “ You ’ re open? ” I called, even though it was still two minutes until nine—and he probably couldn ’ t hear me through the door.
He glanced at the clock on the far wall, then laughed and said something to his coworker in a way that made me realize this probably happened all the time.
Then he set down the paper he ’ d been holding in one hand, strode out from behind the desk, and waved at me to come in. He must have remotely unlocked the door, because the latch clicked.
“ Thank you, Jesus,” I said out loud, forgetting that the old woman was still just a few inches behind me.
She snorted. “ Raised wrong, ” she muttered again, but I was already reaching for the door handle to go inside.
“ Thank you, seriously, I ’ m in such a crazy rush this morning,” I blurted out, smiling as big as I could.
“ No problem, ” he said, waving me over to the desk he ’ d been standing behind moments earlier. “ How can I help you?”
I told him what I ’ d rehearsed, proud and horrified by how easily the lies rolled off my tongue.
All that mattered was that this worked.
It only took him about five minutes to tuck the wad of cash into an envelope and hand it to me, still smiling, over the desk. “ Is there anything else I can help you with, Ms. Halverson?”
“ That ’ s all,” I chirped, tucking the folder back underneath my arm. “ And really, thanks again. You ’ re a lifesaver. ”
My throat nearly caught on the last part.
I ’ d never meant those words so literally in my life.