Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
The word study was written across the paper in David’s neat, microscopic handwriting.
The locksmith must have left the duplicate here, or David had forgotten to hide it.
I held the key between my thumb and forefinger, my mind racing back to the black business card. He had told me the lawyer was for a patient, but his study was locked tight against me.
Slipping the cold brass key into the deep pocket of my trousers, knowing it did not belong there.
The marble floor of the Oak Creek National Bank was cold even through my thick-soled shoes at ten o’clock the next morning.
The lobby was nearly empty except for an elderly man filling out a deposit slip at the central standing desk.
His boots clicked on the tile, a slow, hollow sound that echoed up toward the high plaster ceiling.
Sarah, a young woman whose mother had been in my junior English class twenty years ago, smiled from behind the high teller counter.
“Just the deposit today, Rachel?” she asked, her voice carrying the polite, practiced lilt of a small-town bank employee.
