The shadow slid away from the threshold, and Frank’s keys went off down the walk.

First National Bank smelled like lemon polish and old carpet.

I sat in a vinyl chair by the teller line with the receipt flat on my knee.

The coin machine behind me counted pennies and stopped.

A man in a gray cardigan came out of the manager’s office, polishing his glasses with his tie.

Arthur Vance, retired accountant.

He had on the same tie as three years ago, and when he saw me he stopped.

“Mason Prescott,” he said.