Chelsea covered a smile.
Bradley leaned forward.
“And your grandmother, the woman from Maple Court, somehow left a ten-year-old with a reserve account.”
Wesley felt something hardening beneath his fear.
“My grandma was a teacher.”
Bradley laughed.
“A teacher.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Forty years.”
“And she saved enough for this?”
Wesley looked at the reserve card.
“She saved for me.”
Bradley shook his head.
“Do you know how many ridiculous stories I hear?”
“This isn't a story.”
“Every week someone walks in here with stolen cards, fake checks, altered documents—”
“I didn't steal anything.”
Bradley raised one finger.
“Don't interrupt.”
Wesley’s mouth closed.
Bradley continued:
“I've been in banking fifteen years.”
“I know what belongs in this institution.”
He paused.
“And what doesn't.”
The meaning landed even though Wesley was only ten.
His stomach tightened.
He looked toward the documents.
“Call the number.”
Bradley frowned.
“What?”
“My grandma’s account papers have a number.”
“Call.”
The boy’s voice was shaking now.
“Please.”
Bradley stared.
Then smiled coldly.
“I don't take instructions from children.”
He stood.
Wesley stood too.
Bradley raised his voice.
Chelsea stepped nearer.
Customers turned.
“I am placing a temporary hold on this account until ownership can be properly investigated.”
Wesley’s eyes widened.
“You can't.”
Bradley smiled.
“I can.”
“That money is mine.”
“According to you.”
“Grandma saved it.”
“According to you.”
Wesley clutched her letter.
Bradley looked at it.
“What is that?”
“Her letter.”
He almost laughed.
“A letter.”
“Yes.”
“Does it say you're secretly a millionaire too?”
Someone nearby laughed.
Wesley’s eyes burned.
He refused to cry.
Bradley continued:
“Maybe your grandmother left you a mansion.”
Another chuckle.
“Maybe an airplane.”
More laughter.
Wesley whispered:
“Stop.”
Bradley’s smile disappeared.
“What did you say?”
“Stop talking about her.”
The room became quieter.
Bradley stepped around the desk.
He was much taller.
Wesley had to look upward.
“You don't raise your voice in my bank.”
“I didn't.”
“Security.”
Jerome looked toward them.
Bradley pointed.
“Escort him out.”
Jerome did not move immediately.
His hands became damp.
He had seen this before.
Not this exact boy.
Other people.
An immigrant couple whose English frustrated Bradley.
An elderly woman who struggled with online forms.
A construction worker wearing dirty clothes.
A mother whose overdraft problem Bradley discussed loudly enough for others to hear.
Jerome had watched.
Always watched.
Eleven years.
Mortgage.
Pension.
Children in college.
Keep your job.
Keep your head down.
Survive.
Bradley’s voice sharpened.
“Jerome.”
Jerome walked forward.