“All right,” I said. “I’ll be there within the hour.”
I drove myself down Bay Street in the old Buick Robert had adored more than was entirely sensible for a man his age. He used to polish it every Sunday morning, whistling under his breath while the sunlight caught the hood and flashed into the neighbor’s hedges. The car had outlasted him by eight years now. I kept it running partly because it was reliable and partly because letting it go felt too much like letting go of the last practical trace of his hands.
Savannah smelled faintly of river and heat even that early. Salt, old brick, live oaks, diesel from delivery trucks, and the warm sweetness of bakery bread drifting from somewhere nearby. Familiar scents. Good scents. A city that knew how to age without apologizing for it.
When I stepped into the bank, the air-conditioning hit me first, cool and dry and a touch too strong. Jason was already waiting near the customer service desk. Young, tidy, nervous. He had one of those earnest faces that still looked startled by conflict.
