Chapter 11 - The Knock on the Glass
The room seemed to lose all oxygen. The ticking of the mahogany grandfather clock in the corner of the bank manager's office sounded like thunderclaps.
"That's impossible," Harold said, his voice flat, dangerously devoid of emotion. "Thomas died twenty-six years ago. His death certificate was filed in Escambia County, Florida."
"Harold," Henderson said quietly, his hand trembling as he reached for a faxed document. "The wire wasn't requested online. The individual walked into our regional branch in Philadelphia at eight o'clock sharp. He presented an original birth certificate, a matching social security card, and the original physical passbook from 1994."
Melissa let out a choked cry, covering her mouth. Mom gripped my arm so hard her fingernails dug through my coat sleeve.
Harold slowly lowered the pen. The ghost that had haunted our childhood, the phantom that had driven our father to obsess over every penny and turn our home into an emotional fortress, wasn't dead. He had been lurking in the shadows, waiting for the legal dust to settle, waiting for Harold to finally touch the money so he could strike.
"Did the wire clear?" Harold asked, his knuckles turning chalk-white against the cherrywood desk.
"Not yet," Henderson said, rapidly clicking his mouse. "International wires above ten thousand dollars require a sixty-minute secondary fraud review. It's flagged in our compliance queue. We have forty-two minutes before the regional supervisor approves the transmission."
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Harold didn't panic. For thirty years, my father had lived in a state of hyper-vigilance, constantly preparing for the worst day of his life. Now that the worst day had finally arrived in broad daylight, his frantic anxiety completely evaporated, replaced by cold, calculated steel.
"Freeze the account immediately under fraud suspicion," Harold commanded, standing up straight. "And Arthur... dial the FBI field office in Newark. Tell them Agent Vance's old case file is wide open."
