Brandon did not see the key in my hand at first.
He saw me.
That was enough to make his mouth bend into the same small smile he had worn in court, the one he used when he wanted a room to know he had already won.
His charcoal coat was still spotless from the morning.
His shoes clicked across the marble like he belonged in any building with polished floors and locked rooms.
The bank lobby smelled like floor wax, paper, and old coins.
A copy machine hummed behind a half-closed door.
Rainwater slid down the front windows in silver lines, blurring Main Street behind him.
Brandon looked from my coat to my suitcase scuffs to the envelope under my arm.
“Well,” he said softly, “this is sadder than I expected.”
The manager’s hand closed around the second key.
I did not turn all the way toward Brandon.
My fingers stayed wrapped around the brass key Grandpa had hidden for me.
It was warm now from my palm.
“Mr. Vale,” the manager said.
Brandon’s smile thinned.
I looked at the manager.
“You know him?”
Brandon answered before he could.
“Everyone knows me in Milbrook, Clare.
That’s what happens when you build something.”