Chapter 7: What the Bank Manager Told Us
The branch manager's name was Patricia Hollis.
She had a firm handshake and reading glasses on a beaded chain and the kind of manner that came from thirty years of dealing with people's worst days.
I explained the situation carefully.
I didn't rush.
I gave her Diane's name and number and told her Diane would confirm everything legally if needed.
Patricia asked my mother a few questions.
My mother answered them.
Then Patricia excused herself and was gone for eleven minutes.
When she came back, she set a printed log on the desk between us.
"Your box was accessed three times in the past six months," she said.
"The first was fourteen months ago — that would have been around the time of your father's passing, Mrs.
Harmon.
The second was two months ago, which matches what you described.
The third—" She touched the bottom line of the log.
"Was five weeks ago."
My mother leaned forward.
"I wasn't here five weeks ago.
I was at my sister's.
I was gone for ten days."
Patricia looked at her steadily.
"The access was made with a valid key and your account credentials."
"I don't — I don't understand.
He would have needed my key."
I thought about the bedroom.
About five months of Ryan living in my father's house.
About drawers and nightstands and the key hooks by the back door where my parents had hung every key they'd ever owned.
"What was taken?" I said.
Patricia hesitated.
"I can't confirm contents removed," she said carefully.
"But I can tell you that when the insurance renewal was retrieved during the second visit, the box was reopened and reclosed three times during that session.
And during the third visit, the session lasted nineteen minutes."
My mother's hand came down on my arm.
"The will," she said.
"Your father's updated will.
It was in that box."
I looked at her.
"He updated it eight months before he d*ed," she said.
"After you enlisted.
He added a provision — he said he wanted to make sure the house stayed protected.
He was very specific about it.
Diane drew it up." Her voice dropped.
"I never made a copy.
I thought it was safe in the box."
I stood up.
My chair scraped back.
"I need to call Diane."
Diane answered before I finished dialing.
"The will," I said.
"The updated one.
Do you have a copy?"
A single beat of silence.
"I have the original file," she said.
"I always retain originals.
Why?"
I told her about the box.
The three access dates.
The nineteen-minute session.
"He was looking for it," Diane said.
"Or he found it and wanted to see what it said." A pause.
"Jessica, if someone removed that document believing it was the only copy, they were wrong.
But I'd like to know what else was in that box."
My mother was already thinking.
I could see her going through it — the mental inventory of every document they'd ever filed away.
Then she stopped.
"The property deed," she said quietly.
"The original deed to the house.
It was in there."
May you like
She looked at me.
"It was in there, and I haven't seen it since."
