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“You’re going to have so much fun at the party.” Aubree sets her gift on the counter and works quickly through the checkout process.
Bag.
Credit card.
Receipt.
Then she steps back and waves me forward. “Pay for the bear, Mayet. Smile at the nice cashier. Then wrap your gift and give it to our girl. She turns four only once.”
“We turn every age only once.” I watch the cashier work, and wave my card across the machine when it’s time. “And I’m not wrapping it. This lovely lady,” I accept my purchase with a smile, “already did such a fine job.” I turn to Aubree and shake the paper bag. “All done.”
“Grump.” She watches Fifi follow the same steps we did, then like a trio of idiots, we make our way out of the store and back onto the sidewalk with our matching stuffies. “What do you need at the bank?”
I stare at her incredulously. “Uh… private, personal banking stuff.” I hold the handles over the crook of my arm, and time my steps so my knee hits the bear’s packaging box. “It should be quick, then I’m going home and waiting for Archer to finish work.”
“What time does his shift end?”
I think. And frown. Then I glance to Aubree and shrug. “I don’t actually know. Not once since I’ve known him has he worked a regular shift and clocked off at a respectable hour. He just goes when he’s needed, and comes back when he’s done. He’ll be home once he solves his case.”
“Kinda like you,” she teases, bumping my hip with hers as we cross from one block to the next. “Ms. Lewis,on the other hand, is never at the office a minute past five.”
“My work gets done,” Fifi drawls. “I’m the best public relations administrator the George Stanley has ever known. The fact I can complete my daily to-do list within the parameters of my scheduled hours should not be mocked, Doctor Emeri. It should be celebrated. My output is efficient, and my results speak for themselves.”
“That was an extremely long-winded sentence for a woman who prides herself on expediency,” Aubree teases. But she skips back a step when Fifi’s eyes burn hotter. “What do you do after work?”
“I mind my own business.” Striding up the steps of the bank, she grabs the antique handle of the hundred-year-old door and swings it wide with a look of derision in her eyes. “You should try it sometime.”
“You’re mean.”
But as Aubree and I file past her, Fifi’s phone trills, so she releases the door at our backs and stays on the steps outside to answer.
“Do you think she wears a corset under her clothes?” Aubree turns and walks backward, while I keep my eyes forward and make a beeline for the teller with the shortest line.
This bank is one of the city’s original buildings—established in eighteen-eighty-five, according to the plaque on the wall—which means the tellers’ stations are old-fashioned and come with arched windows and thick brick frames. The roof is a mix of old wood and stained glass. The stairs out front, I’m certain, are featured in dozens of photographs that the Copeland City tourist department uses to bring visitors in.
This place is just… old. And drafty. And echo-y.
But fortunately for us, it’s not crazy busy, despite the last-minute rush of office workers making their deposits before the close of business.
Better yet, there’s onlyonechild in here, and he’s neither crawling on the floor, nor screeching about toys.
“Mayet?” Aubree twists when I come to a stop at the back of the line, then she elbows me, like she thinks hitting to get my attention is appropriate. “Corset? Fifi.”
“I have no clue. Nor do I care.” I hold Mia’s bear in one arm, and check my phone with my free hand. It’s only been minutes, so I know Archer won’t be ready to clock out and come home, but I look anyway. And hope. “I suggest you stop wondering what she’s wearing under her clothes, too. Your inquiry borders on sexual harassment in the workplace.”
“Oh please.” She scoffs easily, only to tense and glance across the bank when a man’s voice grows into a shout.
Desks litter that side of the room, ‘important,’ managerial-type people sitting behind them, and from one visitor chair, a man around thirty, perhaps thirty-five, shoves up in rage.
Two security guards, both of whom are surely near Steve’s age, meander forward to deal with the kerfuffle.
“Ohhh,” Aubree whispers as I curiously tilt my head. “He’sbigmad.”
“But that’s not good enough!” The angry customer slams his chair back in until it smacks the bank worker’s desk, then he spins so I catch tears in his eyes. Fear in his expression. Panic.
“Maybe he got rejected for a loan,” Aubree murmurs. “Or the manager slept with his wife.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” I roll my eyes. “Not everything requires your commentary, ya know?”
