No account number. No fumbled notepad. No colleague called over to look at a screen. “Of course, Mr. Whitmore.” Cindy was already standing. “Right this way.” She walked him down the corridor herself. The door at the end opened and closed. Elias watched the whole thing from his chair. He sat with it for a moment. Then he picked up the folder and opened it.
Margaret’s handwriting in the margins, neat and small the way she wrote everything. Notes he still couldn’t make sense of, figures and names and references to things he didn’t have the context to understand. He’d meant to ask someone about it. He’d meant to do a lot of things. He closed it again. He looked at the teller windows.