Each step felt heavier.
He stopped near Wesley.
The boy looked up at him.
Jerome could not hold his eyes.
Wesley packed the account documents into the envelope.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He took Grandma Eleanor’s letter last.
Pressed it to his chest.
Then he walked toward the door.
Bradley called after him:
“Next time you want to play rich, at least dress for the part.”
Someone laughed.
That was the moment Wesley cried.
Not loudly.
One tear.
Then another.
He reached the entrance.
His phone rang.
Uncle Lawrence.
Wesley tried answering.
His fingers shook.
The phone slipped.
Hit the marble.
The screen cracked.
Jerome, following several steps behind, bent down.
Picked it up.
He looked at Wesley.
The boy looked back.
Jerome wanted to say something.
I’m sorry.
He wanted to turn around and tell Bradley he had crossed a line.
He wanted to tell everyone laughing that they should be ashamed.
Instead, Jerome handed the phone back.
Silence.
Wesley walked outside.
The automatic doors closed behind him.
Bradley adjusted his tie.
He looked toward Chelsea.
“That,” he said, “is how you stop trouble before it becomes expensive.”
Chelsea did not smile this time.
Outside, November wind pushed through Wesley’s thin jacket.
He sat on a stone bench near the parking lot.
Brown envelope beside him.
Cracked phone in his hand.
Grandma Eleanor’s letter on his lap.
He looked at his shoes.
The ones Bradley mocked.
Two dollars.
Thrift store.
Wesley remembered the afternoon Grandma bought them.
“I’m sorry they aren't new.”
“I like them.”
“You don't have to lie to me.”
“I don't.”
“You're making the face.”
“What face?”
“The face children make when they think old women are too fragile for honesty.”
Wesley had laughed.
She tied the laces.
“One day you’ll understand something.”
“What?”
“People spend too much money trying to look like they have worth.”
She tapped his chest.
“That part is free.”
Now Wesley understood more than he wanted.
The phone buzzed.
He tried calling Lawrence.
Voicemail.
He typed:
They kicked me out.
Then:
They said Grandma’s card wasn’t mine.
Then:
They called me a liar.
He hesitated.
Added:
Please come.
Inside, Diane Campbell had returned.
She had reached her car.
Put the key into the ignition.
Then stopped.
She saw Wesley through the windshield.
Small figure.
Shoulders curled.
Alone.
She could not drive.
She returned to the lobby.
Bradley was speaking with Chelsea.
Diane approached the customer-service desk.
“I need to speak to the manager.”
Chelsea gestured.
“He’s right there.”
Diane walked toward Bradley.
He smiled professionally.
“Mrs. Campbell.”
“Who was that boy?”
Bradley’s smile thinned.
“Fraud attempt.”
“He looked about ten.”
“Unfortunately they start young.”
Diane stared.
“You verified that?”
“We're handling it.”
“You sent him outside crying.”