If being disabled, broke, and functionally trapped in my house didn’t qualify as an emergency, I wasn’t sure what did.
Robert and I had banked at Community First Federal for thirty-five years. Pinnacle Private Banking sounded like a place for people with private jets and vacation homes, not for a man who clipped coupons and drove a fifteen-year-old Honda until the wheels fell off.
I had never heard him mention it.
Not once in forty-three years of marriage.
The smart thing would have been to call first, make an appointment, ask polite questions.
But after yesterday’s humiliation, reasonable wasn’t in my vocabulary.
I called a cab.
Downtown’s newest tower rose into the sky like a polished blade.
Marble lobby. Security guards with the posture of men who’d never been uncertain in their lives. Everything gleamed, reflective, spotless.
I rolled across the marble, feeling my wheels whisper against the floor.
The elevator to the thirty-second floor was the quietest I’d ever ridden. No music. No advertising screens. Just polished brass and the faint scent of money, sharp and clean like expensive cologne.
When the doors opened, I found myself in a reception area that looked more like a luxury hotel than a bank.
Leather furniture. Original artwork. A receptionist who managed to look welcoming and intimidating at the same time.
“Good morning,” she said. “How may I help you?”
My fingers tightened around the business card.
“I’d like to speak with Jonathan Maxwell, please,” I said, holding it out like a key.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” I said. “But I have account information.”
I showed her the card with Robert’s handwriting.
Her demeanor shifted.
Not unfriendly.
More attentive. More careful.
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