The kind a person made when they were in a hurry and the person in front of them wasn’t. Tch. Small and sharp and not quite under the breath enough. Elias gathered his notepad and his hat and straightened up without turning around, his ears warm. He read out the account number carefully. Cindy typed. Looked at the screen.
Her brow shifted — just slightly, a small furrow of something that might have been confusion or recalibration. “Mr. Boone, it looks like agricultural accounts are typically handled by Mr. Peters — he’s just down the hall, second door on the left. He’d be better placed to —” “I’m here to see Mr. Fitch,” Elias said. “The manager. I have an appointment.”