“Those records are private bank property, Martha,” he said.
“They are public interest files if there was a discrepancy in the transfer,” I said, holding my ground.
Richard let out a short, harsh laugh. “There are no discrepancies in my bank. There never have been, and there never will be.”
“I saw the signature page in the county book, Richard,” I said.
“Then you saw a legal document that was processed fifty-five years ago,” he said, leaning his hands flat against the counter. “This bank has strict rules about privacy, and I suggest you go home and mind your own business.”
“The signature was witnessed by you,” I said.
“Good day, Martha,” he said, his voice rising enough to make the other teller at the drive-up window turn to look at us.
I turned around and walked out of the lobby, the heavy glass doors closing behind me with a soft hiss of air.
Daniel was waiting in the passenger seat of my car, his head resting against the vinyl seatback. He did not ask what had happened inside. He knew by the way I slammed my door.
