“He is taking our money, Kenneth.”
“He is securing our legacy,” Kenneth said, turning back to his gears and ignoring me completely.
At eight the next morning, I walked into the Market Avenue diner to meet Clara, my oldest friend in town. The room was loud with the clatter of heavy ceramic mugs, and a cup of black coffee now cost two dollars.
Clara was already in the corner booth, holding her cup with both hands to warm them. “I saw Kenneth yesterday,” she said before I could even slide onto the bench.
“Where?” I asked.
“At the First County Bank lobby,” Clara said, leaning forward over the table. “He was with Gerald Boyce.”
I sat down, the cold draft from the front door hitting the back of my neck. “What was he doing with Gerald Boyce?”
“They were signing papers at the high table by the deposit boxes,” Clara said. “You know Gerald. He is that independent advisor with the big office near the courthouse.”
“I have heard the name,” I said. “But we have never used him.”
