Chapter 20: Bank Day

On the morning of the twentieth the bank came to the ninth floor with a locksmith and a clipboard.

I went with Hattie and Brynn, because the three of us had decided it was ours to watch.

Ansel stayed in the lobby with his coat on.

"I'll be at the elevator," he said. "If you want me, look left."

The office was nearly empty.

Auction tags hung from the desk lamps, and the lobby sofa had a yellow sticker that said LOT 41.

The only person left was in the glass office at the end, behind her desk, in her cream suit.

My mother had made herself a cup of tea.

She looked up as we came in, and for a second the three of us stood there, her three women, in a row.

"Well," she said. "All of you."

The bank man was the same one who had taken Luther's car.

He had a gray coat now and the patient face of someone who has been cursed at by professionals.

"Mrs. Sjoberg, we need the keys to the floor and your badge."

"I'll hand them to my counsel."

"Your counsel resigned on Friday," Hattie said, from the door. "I took the call."

My mother's cup didn't shake.

"Of course you did."

She picked up a newspaper from the desk and held it out toward me by two fingers.

It was Sunday's Madison Dispatch.

I had read it with Brynn on Hattie's couch the day before.

I had cried at the headline, a small plain line at the top of page one.

CORRECTION: STRANDBERG DID NOT PREY. THE CREATOR WAS A DONOR.