“Mrs. Whitmore?” the voice said when I picked up.
“Yes?”
“This is Jason from First Savannah Bank. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but… would you be able to come in today? There’s something important we need to discuss.”
He wasn’t cheerful. That was the first thing I noticed.
Not cold, either. Just careful. The sort of careful you hear from doctors before they tell you test results or from preachers before they begin a funeral.
I sat a little straighter in my kitchen chair.
“Is something wrong with my account?”
There was the smallest pause, then: “I’d rather explain in person, ma’am.”
I looked out the window at the magnolia tree in the yard, its branches shifting lazily in the soft coastal air. The day was bright already, sunlight laying itself across the porch like a cat. On the counter sat my sugar jar, my reading glasses, and the little ceramic bowl where I dropped spare change. Everything looked so ordinary that his tone felt out of place, like thunder in a room with closed windows.
