They were well dressed, unhurried, carrying the quiet authority of people who didn’t need to announce themselves in rooms like this because rooms like this already knew who they were. One of them — silver haired, the kind of face that had been making considered decisions for a long time — slowed when he took in the lobby.
His eyes moved across it and landed on the security guard, on the older man in the pale blue button down, and on the branch manager standing a few feet away with his jacket straightened and his expression arranged. He stopped walking. “Gerald.” Pleasant. Heavy. Fitch turned. Something happened to his face. “Mr. Hargrove. I wasn’t expecting you quite so early —”