Chapter 3 - The Ride to Town
The brand-new truck rumbled down the suburban asphalt, its leather interior smelling of new car scent and expensive perfume.
Margaret sat in the passenger seat, tapping her manicured nails impatiently against the dashboard, while Paige texted furiously in the back. I drove, my hands locked tightly around the steering wheel. In the backseat, huddled quietly behind the center console, sat Gwen.
She wore a thick woolen coat over her frail frame and another knitted cap pulled low over her bare head. She looked away from the window, staring down at her lap, her knuckles white. She hadn't wanted to come, but I had insisted. I needed her to see what was about to happen. I needed her to know she wasn't alone anymore.
"Honestly, Ethan, bringing her along is just humiliating," Margaret muttered, turning her head back to glare at Gwen through the rearview mirror. "Look at her. People will think we're running a charity ward."
"She's my wife, Ma," I said evenly. "She has a right to be in the vehicle paid for by my money."
Paige snorted. "Your money? Ethan, let's be real. If it wasn't for Ma managing your military allotments while you were off playing hero in the desert, you'd have blown every cent on guns and beer. We built this life for you."
I didn't argue. Arguing with narcissists was like fighting a smoke cloud; you only ended up exhausting yourself. Instead, I glanced in the rearview mirror and caught Gwen’s watery eyes. I gave her a microscopic nod—a silent promise that the nightmare was ending today.
We pulled into the parking lot of the First National Bank of Oak Creek, a grand brick building with towering pillars and glass doors. It was the same bank where my monthly paychecks had been deposited for four years.
As we walked up the steps, Margaret looped her arm through mine, putting on her best socialite smile. "Now, Ethan, remember to sign where the manager tells you. Don't let those bank clerks confuse you with bureaucratic nonsense. We have a grand vision for our family."
We pushed through the heavy glass doors into the air-conditioned lobby. The tellers looked up, and Mr. Vance, the senior vice president who had handled my family's accounts for a decade, immediately stepped out of his glass-walled office, flashing a polished, deferential grin.
"Ah, Sergeant Harper! Welcome home," Mr. Vance boomed, striding across the marble floor with his hand outstretched. "We’ve been expecting you. Your mother has kept us very well-informed about the upcoming four-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit transfer."
I didn't take his hand. I stopped dead in my tracks, letting my arm slip out of Margaret’s grip.
May you like
Mr. Vance blinked, his smile faltering slightly. "Is something wrong?"
"Everything is wrong, Mr. Vance," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the quiet lobby. "And I'm here to conduct a very different kind of transaction."
