The paper was cool and stiff in my hands, a standard commercial transaction report with three separate columns for the date, the transit number, and the clear-balance status.
I tapped my fingernails against the glass of my phone, my eyes scanning the column of outgoing figures. “The destination routing number changed in June,” I said, pointing to the sequence of digits at the bottom of the second page.
Marcus pointed to a tiny asterisk next to the final entry on the sheet. “That indicates a routing diversion,” he explained, tapping his pen on the line. “The local branch accepted the deposit, but the automated system forwarded the entire sum to the receiving institution in Madison within thirty minutes.”
“Where exactly in Madison?” I asked, my voice falling into the quiet, flat tone I used when reviewing disputed damage estimates.
“That routing prefix belongs to our regional office in Dane County,” Marcus said. “The funds are cleared there every month on the third.”
My parents had lived in Oakridge for forty years, and my father’s defunct warehouse accounts had never been associated with a bank five hours away. I folded the paper twice, pressing the crease flat with my thumbnail before sliding it into my purse.
