The bank lobby was cold, smelling of wet coats and old paper.
I stood at the inquiries counter, waiting for the teller to finish typing.
Her silver name tag read Sarah, and she kept her eyes on the screen as her fingers moved.
“I am looking for a record of a dispute from three years ago,” I said, sliding my old savings account card across the black counter.
“An eight thousand dollar wire transfer that I flagged.”
Sarah did not look up immediately, her hand navigating through the older archives.
“The account was closed last year, Ms. Miller,” she said, her voice dropping to a professional whisper.
“I know,” I said. “But the funds were never recovered, and I need to see the original claim details.”
She tapped her index finger against the edge of the keyboard, her screen reflecting in her glasses as she scrolled.
“There is no active dispute on file for that transaction,” she said.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “It was a significant loss.”
“The file was marked resolved and archived,” she said, looking up with a sympathetic smile.
“There is no trace of any active investigation or pending dispute.”
I looked at the screen she pointed to, the word resolved printed in small green letters next to the date.
“Resolved by whom?” I asked.
“It does not say here, only that the claim was withdrawn,” she said.
I thanked her and walked out into the damp air, the mystery of Hannah’s sudden disappearance growing heavier.
At two in the afternoon, Ryan met me at the nursery near the marina.
The air inside the greenhouse was heavy with the scent of white roses and wet ferns.
We walked past the rows of green plastic pots to the counter where the florist stood.
“Three hundred dollars for the garden arrangements,” the florist said, writing the total on a yellow pad.
“We will take them,” Ryan said.
He did not reach for his wallet or his phone.
Instead, he pulled a thick clip of hundred-dollar bills from his jacket pocket.
The bills were all hundreds, clean and crisp, bound by a thick rubber band.
He peeled three of them off and laid them flat on the wooden counter.
“I thought we agreed to use the joint account for the wedding vendors,” I said, watching him slide the remaining cash back into his pocket.
“Cash is easier for these small things,” Ryan said, looking away toward a display of ferns.
“That was at least five thousand dollars in that clip, Ryan,” I said.
He did not answer, his hand returning to the back of his neck.
“Where did that cash come from?” I asked.
“I closed a small personal account,” he said, his voice flat.
“We have a lot of small details to cover this week,” he added.
He took the yellow paper receipt from the florist and folded it twice before putting it away.
By five, the wind off the bay had turned sharp, rattling the loose pane in the front door.
Frank arrived in his grey pickup truck, the bed loaded with white folding chairs.
He carried them up the steps four at a time, his breathing heavy but steady.
He set the final stack against the porch wall with a loud, metallic hollow sound.
He took off his reading glasses and began polishing them on his blue tie, his eyes squinting at the water.
“That is forty chairs,” Frank said, his gravelly chuckle dry in the cold air.
“Thank you, Frank,” I said, leaning against the wooden railing. “Ryan is inside resting.”
Frank stopped rubbing his glasses and looked at me, his expression shifting.
“How is he holding up?” Frank asked.
“He seems busy,” I said. “A lot of details to manage.”
“He has been acting stressed about family finances lately, Martha,” Frank said.
I looked at him, my hand stopping on my wedding band.
“What do you mean by family finances?” I asked.
“He asked me about some old accounts last week,” Frank said, sliding his glasses back on.
“He did not mention that to me,” I said.
“He is a quiet man when he is worried,” Frank said, giving my shoulder a brief, heavy pat.
He walked down the wooden steps, his boots loud on the gravel path.
I went back inside the house, the quiet of the kitchen feeling larger than before.
