My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
The lobby smelled of wet wool, floor wax, and the dry heat of old radiators. We walked past the teller counter to the back corner where a glass-walled office sat under a green sign that said Branch Manager. A brass plate on the desk inside read Thomas Vance. He was a thin man in a grey wool suit who looked like he had spent forty years counting other people’s money.
Rachel knocked once on the glass and opened the door before he could stand up.
“Mr. Vance, I am Rachel Monroe,” she said. “We have an appointment regarding the Carter trust account and the foreclosure file on parcel four.”
Thomas Vance adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles and looked at the clock on his wall. It was exactly ten in the morning. He had a stack of blue folders on his desk, and his fingers hovered over them as if he were deciding whether to open them or slide them into a drawer.
