Chapter 5: The Bait File

The bank called on Thursday at 7:10 in the morning.

Maybelle took it standing at the kitchen counter with a biscuit in her hand.

I watched her face change in three stages.

"Yes," she said. "Yes. I see. Well, that's a surprise."

She hung up.

"The man says there's been a review," she said. "The call on the loan is suspended for ninety days."

She set the biscuit down.

"He sounded like he'd been to a funeral."

"What happened?"

I turned my phone around.

The clip from the porch had six million views.

Marlena's voice saying you smell like a hospital had been dubbed into nine languages.

The bank's page was buried under two hundred thousand one-star reviews from nurses.

"Mama," I said, "I think you have an army."

"Lord help the bank," Maybelle said, and bit her biscuit with deep satisfaction.

At two o'clock that afternoon I walked into the glass conference room at Whitfield Security wearing my best black hoodie.

Raylan had put me at a desk by the window on Tuesday.

It came with a badge that said CONSULTANT in block letters and a thermos of coffee I hadn't asked for.

He did not mention the frozen accounts.

He only said, "Do whatever you need, Ms. Calhoun, and don't touch my servers."

I had not touched his servers.

I had touched one shared folder, for ten minutes, at six that morning.

Now Lucinda Merriman sat down at the head of the table in a navy suit and pearls.

The family attorney sat beside her with a folder.

Marlena took the chair across from me, with her honey hair loose, her eyes red, and a fresh cream coat.

Eleven of Raylan's staff stood along the glass wall, because I had asked for witnesses and Raylan had said yes.

"This is a courtesy," Lucinda said. "Mr. Whitfield, my family has been your client for six years."

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