She slid the card into the reader.
A soft chime came from the machine.
The screen refreshed.
Emily went still.
Her smile disappeared so completely it felt like someone had turned off a light.
She glanced at my ID.
Then at the screen.
Then toward the glass offices behind her.
“Miss Donovan,” she said quietly, “I need you to stay here for a moment.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Please.”
That was the word that made my pulse change.
Please.
People say please when they want to be polite.
They also say it when they are afraid you might walk away from something important.
“I just want to close the account,” I said.
“I understand.”
“Is there a problem?”
She lowered her voice.
“This account is flagged.”
“For what?”
She swallowed.
“It is connected to a restricted file.”
The lobby noise pulled away from me.
I could still see people moving.
I could still hear the printer and the stamp pad and the toddler fussing near the chairs.
But all of it felt far off.
Emily reached beneath the counter and picked up the phone.
Her hand shook just enough for me to see the black cord tap against the drawer.
“I have a restricted account inquiry at Station Three,” she said.
A pause.
“Yes, the cardholder is here in person.”
Another pause.
“Yes. With ID.”
She hung up slowly.
“Someone will be right with you.”
“Someone who?”
“Our branch manager.”
