David sighed dramatically. "Sir, I don't know how you got past the greeter, but you are disrupting my branch. Take your old folder and leave. Now."
"My name is Elias," I said, staring directly into David's eyes. "And if you are the manager of this branch, you have the authorization to access a Tier-1 legacy account. Type the number in."
David’s jaw tightened. He snatched the leather folder, opened it carelessly, and glanced at the faded yellow paper inside. He rolled his eyes, walked over to Bryce’s terminal, and furiously typed on the keyboard.
"Fine. You want to see? I'll show you," David snapped.
He hit the enter key. I watched his face.
For a split second, I expected him to pale, to realize who I was, to apologize profusely. But that didn't happen. Instead, David's eyes narrowed. He quickly hit another button, minimizing the screen.
"The account is empty," David said smoothly, handing the folder back to me. "Zero balance. Now, you’ve had your fun. Get out."
I froze. "That's impossible. The trust contains twelve million dollars in municipal bonds."
"It's empty," David sneered. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers toward the lobby. "Security! Escort this vagrant off the premises. If he resists, call the police."
Two large security guards in dark suits immediately began marching toward me.
I didn't move. I knew exactly what I had seen in David's eyes. He was lying. He hadn't typed the full alphanumeric sequence of my trust. He had typed a shortcut code.
As the first security guard grabbed my left bicep, pulling me roughly backward, I leaned my weight to the right, peering around David's shoulder to look at the computer monitor. The screen wasn't minimized completely. A small window was still visible in the corner.
It didn't say the account was empty.
It displayed a glaring red banner. And in the center of that banner was an error code: ERR-409.
Beneath the code were the words: RESTRICTED. CONSERVATORSHIP ACTIVE. WARD OF THE STATE. NOTIFY M. VANCE IMMEDIATELY.
My heart slammed against my ribs like a sledgehammer. The air in my lungs turned to ice.
Conservatorship. Ward of the state.
Marcus hadn't just been calling to check on my health. He had been quietly building a legal cage around me.
"Wait," I choked out, fighting against the guard's grip. "What did you do? What did he do?!"
"Get him out of my sight!" David barked, pulling his expensive phone from his pocket and frantically dialing a number.
As the guards dragged me backward across the cold marble floor, away from my money, away from Clara's legacy, I realized with terrifying clarity that I hadn't just walked into a disrespectful bank.
I had walked into a trap. And the jaws had just snapped shut.
"Keep walking, old man. Don't make this harder than it needs to be," the larger of the two security guards growled, twisting my left arm behind my back.
I didn't fight him. At seventy-four, a physical struggle with two men half my age would only end with broken bones. But my mind was moving faster than it had in years. The fog of grief that had clouded my brain for the past four years vanished, burned away by a sudden, white-hot surge of adrenaline.