William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I stared at the red letters on the screen until my eyes began to water behind my glasses.
Why would Marsha keep that a secret from me?
I reached for the telephone on my desk, my finger hovering over the button for an outside line, but I did not press it.
The local branch of the state bank was cold, the air conditioning humming loudly under the high plaster ceiling when I walked in at half past four.
The lobby smelled of floor wax and old paper, and the marble floor echoed with every step I took toward the counter.
I stood at the third teller window, holding my driver’s license against the polished dark wood.
The teller, a young woman with a silver name tag that read Elena, tapped her keyboard without looking up.
“I need to see the cleared image of a cashier’s check for twelve thousand dollars,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could. “It was drawn from our accounts on Friday afternoon.”
Elena looked at her screen, her eyebrows knitting together as she scrolled through the transaction history.
