“I am going to the bank downtown,” I said, pulling my coat tighter around my shoulders. “The one where we had our joint account before he closed it.”
“Be careful what you ask them,” David said. “They might still have his mother’s lawyers on speed dial.”
The lobby of the downtown bank branch was quiet at one o’clock, the high marble columns reflecting the gray winter light from the street. I stood at the teller window, my fingers pressed against the cold brass rail.
The teller, a middle-aged woman named Susan with neat silver hair, took my state identification card and typed my Social Security number into her terminal.
“I need a complete history of any joint accounts associated with my name and social security number,” I said, my voice slow and deliberate.
She squinted at the screen, her fingers clicking rapidly on the keys.
“You have the personal checking account you opened two years ago,” she said.
“Is there any other profile?” I asked. “Perhaps an older one that was never fully closed?”
She went quiet, her eyes moving across the lines of data.
“There is a secondary profile here,” she said, lowering her voice. “It has been dormant for nearly three years.”
She printed a single sheet of paper and slid it under the glass partition.
“The address on file is forty-two twelve West Avenue,” she said.
I had never lived on West Avenue. I had never even driven down that street during our marriage.
“Who else was on that account?” I asked.
“Marcus Reynolds,” she said. “It was established as a joint business account, but the secondary profile was never fully integrated into your main customer record.”
“Was there any money left in it?” I asked.
“The balance was cleared out by a wire transfer on November twelfth,” she said. “Eighty-four thousand dollars was sent to an account in the Cayman Islands.”
“And my signature was on the withdrawal authorization?” I asked.
“It was a joint account with right of survivorship,” she said, looking down at the screen. “Only one signature was required for online transfers.”
