Borrow My Seat novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Twelve Dollars and Four Cents

The bank confirms Lane took everything, the video hits two million views, Tobias shuts down the gossip in front of the studio, and Lane's mother sets a price for the money.

The branch manager had a nameplate, a lanyard, and the patient face of a person who had said no many times before.

"The account is joint, Ms. Eklund," she said. "Either holder can withdraw any amount at any time."

"It was my salary. For four years."

"I understand. But legally, it's his money as much as yours."

Greta leaned across the desk in her scrubs, fresh off a night shift.

"He took forty-one thousand dollars in one morning, and you're calling that banking?"

"He took it at 8:15 yesterday," the manager said, glancing at her screen. "In person, at this counter."

I stared at her.

At 8:15 on Monday morning, he had told me he was going out for coffee.

He had come back with two cups and kissed me goodbye.

Chantal had walked into my lobby thirty-five minutes later.

He had known, before any of it started, that I would be leaving him.

"Where did it go?" I asked.

"A transfer to an outside account. I can't say whose."

I thanked her very politely, and Greta didn't, and we walked out into a cold, bright morning.

"We're getting it back," Greta said.

"We're getting it back."

"I'll sleep on a cot in the courthouse if I have to."

"You have a couch. You make me sleep on it."

"I'm a generous host with strong opinions."

I laughed, and the sound surprised me.

At 9:40 I walked into Ahlgren Studio with my chin up and my phone in my pocket, and I did not look at the screen until I reached my desk.

The video had been posted at midnight, with the caption MISTRESS CAUGHT ON DAY ONE.

It had two point one million views.

Someone had cut it down to a short clip, with Lane's voice saying you are the mistress and a red circle around my face.

The comments were about what you would expect.

Someone had tagged Ahlgren Studio under every one of them.

The man at the next desk kept his eyes on his screen.

Two women near the kitchenette stopped talking when I passed.

I sat down and opened my sketchbook.

At 10:30, a short, clipped voice rang out across the floor.

"Everyone to the atrium. Five minutes."

Thirty-one people in jeans and glasses and headphones gathered around the glass railing.

Tobias stood on the lowest step of the staircase with his hands in his pockets.

He didn't look at me.

"One announcement," he said. "Yesterday a woman brought a camera crew into our lobby and filmed a member of this team without permission."

He let that sit.

"The video is online. You've seen it. Some of you have opinions about it."

Nobody moved.

"Ms. Eklund did not make that video. She did not post it. She called the police, because someone was harassing her at work, and she was right to."

His voice never rose.

"Anyone in this building who reposts it, comments on it, or repeats it in the break room will have a conversation with me. I don't have it often. People don't like it."

A man at the back cleared his throat.

"What if it's true, though? What if she really was seeing a married guy?"

I felt every eye on the floor swing toward me.

Tobias looked at him for a long moment.

"Then it would be her private life," he said, "and you'd still be working here to do your job, not to review hers. Does anyone else have a question?"

Nobody did.

"Good. Back to work."

The room emptied.

A woman with a green streak in her hair stopped beside my desk.

"For what it's worth," she said, "my mother thinks Chantal looks like a woman who cries on cue."

"Thank you," I said.

"The sticky note was mine."

"I know. It helped."

She smiled and left.

I worked until four.

At 4:15, the receptionist rang my desk phone.

"Ms. Eklund, there's a Mrs. Raskin at the front. She says she's family."

I hadn't heard Marjorie's name in two days, and every nerve in my body knew it before the elevator opened.

She stood in the glass lobby in a camel coat and pearl studs, holding a cream envelope.

She had been my boyfriend's mother for four years.

She had sat at my table at Thanksgiving, and I had made her pie.

"Ingrid, dear," she said, and kissed the air near my cheek.

"What do you want, Marjorie?"

"Only to help." She smiled, the pleasant smile of a woman on a committee. "Lane is terribly hurt about the police. But he's a forgiving boy, and he'd like this nonsense to be over."

She held out the envelope.

"Saturday at seven, at the Lakeshore Yacht Club. Eighty guests. A small reception for Lane and Chantal."

I did not take it.

"You want me at their wedding party."

"I want you to be gracious. You'll apologize to Chantal in front of everyone, and Lane will see that your little savings account is put right." She tilted her head. "He took care of your insurance paperwork for years, you know. Showing some gratitude wouldn't kill you."

The receptionist had gone very still behind her desk.

"And if I don't come?"

"Then it stays wherever it is, dear. Forty-one thousand dollars is such a lot of money to be angry about."

I took the envelope.

Inside was a heavy card with gold lettering.

Lane and Chantal Raskin invite you to celebrate their marriage.

Chantal had already changed her name.

I looked at Marjorie's bright, patient face, and I understood that she believed I would crawl.

"I'll be there," I said. "Seven o'clock."

She patted my arm.

"Good girl."

When the elevator doors closed on her, I tore the card in half, and then I put the halves in my pocket.

I wanted to remember the address.

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