A clerk in a navy suit looked up. “Can I help you?”
I placed Grandma’s savings book on the counter.
Her name was printed inside: Margaret Rose Hale. Beneath it, faded stamps marked deposits spanning forty years. The clerk smiled politely at first. Then he entered the account number.
His smile vanished.
He typed again.
The color drained from his face so quickly I thought he might faint.
“Miss Hale,” he said quietly, “please don’t leave.”
My pulse jumped. “Why?”
He grabbed the phone with shaking hands. “Call the police. Call legal. Now.”
Two security guards moved toward the entrance.
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