Chapter 4 - THE PASSWORD
“What did you just say?”
Sloan leaned against the doorframe.
“I said you look confused.”
“No. You said I shouldn’t go digging.”
She shrugged.
“You’re sixty-five. Online banking isn’t exactly your generation.”
I stood up.
“Get out of my office.”
She smiled.
“Touched a nerve?”
“Out.”
Something in my voice finally reached her.
She left.
I shut the door.
Then locked it.
My hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From anger.
I called the bank.
After twenty minutes of automated menus, I finally reached a representative.
“I need to reset my online banking access.”
The woman asked security questions.
Date of birth.
Address.
Last four digits of my Social Security number.
Then she paused.
“Mrs. Bennett, I’m seeing an authorized user listed.”
“My son.”
“Harrison Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to leave his authorization in place?”
I stared at the locked office door.
“No.”
“All right. We’ll need you to come into a branch with identification.”
“How soon?”
“We can schedule tomorrow afternoon.”
“I want the earliest appointment you have.”
She found one five days later at eight thirty.
Five days.
That felt like forever.
After hanging up, I searched through old financial records.
Years earlier, after Robert’s first heart attack, we had created an emergency savings account.
It held more money than Harrison knew.
Or at least I thought he didn’t know.
The account was not meant to make anyone rich.
It was meant to keep me from losing the house if something terrible happened.
Hospital bills.
A new roof.
Long-term care.
Emergencies.
Robert had been careful with money.
Painfully careful.
He used to say, “Diane, money can’t buy peace, but not having any sure can buy panic.”
After he died, I left Harrison as an authorized emergency contact.
Not an owner.
Not a co-owner.
An authorized person who could help if I was hospitalized.
At least, that was what I believed.
That evening, I installed a new lock on the office door.
Harrison watched from the hallway.
“What are you doing?”
“Locking my office.”
“Why?”
“Privacy.”
He crossed his arms.
“You think we’re stealing from you?”
I looked at him.
For the first time, he didn’t look offended.
He looked nervous.
That mattered.
I turned the screwdriver another half turn.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
“Because I want a lock.”
“You’ve never locked that door.”
“I’ve never needed to.”
His face hardened.
“Sloan told me you were trying to get into your bank account.”
“It is my bank account.”
“She said you were confused.”
I stood up.
“Do I seem confused?”
He said nothing.
“Harrison?”
“No.”
“Then why did she say that?”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“She worries about you.”
I laughed.
That was too much.
“Sloan worries about me?”
“She thinks you’re becoming obsessive.”
“About my own money?”
“You’re twisting this.”
“No. I’m finally listening.”
He walked away.
That night, I barely slept.
Around one in the morning, I heard footsteps downstairs.
I got out of bed.
Opened my door quietly.
The hallway was dark.
A thin line of light showed beneath my office door.
My new office door.
Locked office door.
I walked slowly toward it.
Someone was inside.
I reached for my phone.
Then the office light went dark.
May you like
The door handle turned.
And Harrison stepped into the hallway holding one of my financial folders.
