“Okay, you’re here. Just calm down. Palmer can’t really hurt you. Anything he tells anyone will be hearsay. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Ariana glanced in the mirror, taking a deep, soothing breath. Before leaving campus, she had meticulously straightened her room, making sure there was no shred of evidence of her freak-out left behind. Then she had shoved the pieces of her current disguise into her leather Louis Vuitton satchel and hit the road. All morning she had been running errands and steering clear of Atherton-Pryce, all the better to avoid the honorable Dr. Victor Meloni. But now, she’d made it to her final stop of the day.
With a discerning eye, Ariana scrutinized her look from all angles. Her blond wig was fashioned into a ponytail, which stuck out through the hole in the back of the battered Washington Nationals baseball cap Palmer had once left in her room. Her black wool peacoat was the blandest she owned, and she’d decided on jeans and sneakers to complete her girl-next-door look. Altogether, she appeared pretty darn forgettable.
“This is just in case,” she told herself firmly. “You always need to have a plan B.”
She smoothed the ponytail, got out of the car, and walked toward the marble-columned building across the street. Inside the bank, the atmosphere was hushed and professional. The brown granite floors gleamed, and the security guard took no notice of her as she crossed to the customer service desk.
“Can I help you?” the woman behind the counter asked, looking up with a smile. Her makeup was about three shades darker than the skin on her neck, and it was all Ariana could do to keep from cringing.
“Yes, I’d like to open a new account,” she replied, averting her eyes to keep from staring.
“Of course. Mr. Lawrence can help you with that.”
She indicated a nearby desk where an elderly gentleman sat in front of a glowing computer screen, his red tie adorned with candy canes.
Perfect, Ariana thought. This guy will be eating out of my palm. And at least she wouldn’t have to deal with staring at that line for the next fifteen minutes.
“Hello!” Mr. Lawrence said, standing as she approached. “So you’d like to open an account with us Miss …?”
“Walsh. Emma Walsh,” Ariana said.
“All right, Miss Walsh, have a seat. I’ll just need to see a driver’s license and one other form of ID.”
Ariana produced her wallet from her bag and fished her Emma Walsh license from the window pocket. Then she took out her passport and laid that out for him as well. Mr. Lawrence hummed Christmas carols to himself while he inputted her information, using the address on the license.
“Okay, and your telephone number?” he asked.
Ariana recited the number from the new cell phone she’d just procured for herself at the mall that morning—the same mall where she’d purchased the wig. Mr. Lawrence’s pudgy fingers flew over the keys.
“All righty. Now. We have many different types of accounts,” he said, pushing his desk blotter toward her. On it were three large squares, one white, one blue, and one gold, each advertising the different levels of accounts and how much money was needed to open each. “Were you interested in checking … savings …?”
“Well, my grandmother wanted me to put most of it in savings, as long as it was linked to a checking account so I could access it if I needed it.”
Ariana made sure her hands shook as she withdrew the crumpled check from her bag.
“Your grandmother?” he asked.
“Yes, she … she wrote me this check before she … passed away.”
Ariana brought her free hand to her face, covering both her mouth and her nose.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” Mr. Lawrence snatched a tissue out of a box on his desk and handed it to her. “Was this recent?”
Ariana nodded, pressi
ng the tissue to her nose. “A few days ago.”
She laid the check on his desk and flattened it with both hands. She had actually written it out to herself that morning, then let it sit, crumpled, in the bottom of her bag so it would be good and battered when she arrived at the bank. Mr. Lawrence did a double take when he saw the huge amount. He cleared his throat and smoothed his tie.
“Well. I’d say you definitely qualify for our gold-level accounts,” he said. “Which is perfect because you’ll be able to transfer money to and from your checking without paying a fee, provided your total combined balance remains above fifty thousand dollars.” He glanced at the check again. “Which … I don’t think you’ll have any problem with.”
“Okay,” Ariana said tearfully. “That sounds good.”
“What do you say we put the bulk of it in high-yield savings, and … let’s see … would twenty thousand be okay in the checking?”
His voice cracked a bit on the “twenty” and his smile twitched. Ariana had a feeling he was thinking about how he’d never see this much money in his lifetime, yet here she was, a teenager, rolling in it already. Such was life, Mr. L.