Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
The next morning, the glass doors of the Oak Creek Bank branch were heavy, cold to the touch when I pushed them open at exactly nine o’clock.
The air inside smelled of carpet cleaner and old paper. I walked toward the row of teller counters, my shoes making no sound on the thick gray carpet.
A teller named Linda looked up from her terminal and offered a polite, professional smile. She had a small gold nameplate pinned to her blue vest.
“Good morning,” she said. “What can we do for you today?”
“I need to make a withdrawal from my joint savings account, please,” I said. My voice sounded thin, echoing slightly in the quiet lobby. “One hundred and fifty dollars.”
I reached into my purse, took out my debit card and my driver’s license, and slid them across the polished black counter. Linda took them, her fingers moving quickly over her keyboard as she pulled up the account.
The tap-tap-tap of the keys seemed unusually loud in the quiet morning. She paused, her eyes scanning the monitor, her fingers hovering over the plastic keys.
