The lobby of the First National Bank on Main Street was quiet when I arrived the next morning at ten. The air inside smelled of carpet cleaner and old paper. Sarah, a young teller with kind eyes who had helped Mark for years, nodded to me from her counter.
“I need to check the balance on Mark’s personal account, Sarah,” I said, leaning against the counter.
Sarah tapped her fingers on her keyboard, her screen reflecting in her glasses. She frowned, then tapped a few more keys before looking up at me.
“I cannot access that account for you, Helen,” Sarah said.
“Is there a hold on it because of the estate?” I asked.
“No,” Sarah said, lowering her voice so the teller next to her would not hear. “The account was closed yesterday afternoon by Laura.”
I stared at the small brass nameplate on Sarah’s counter. Mark had kept that account for twenty years, using it to pay for Toby’s summer camps and our weekly groceries.
“Did she withdraw the remaining balance?” I asked.
