The bank lobby was hushed, the sound of keyboards clicking softly in the background. I sat across from the personal banker, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, as she slid the statement across the desk. There, in black and white, was the evidence of something amiss. A series of transfers labeled ‘TRF to Ext. Acct.’ caught my eye immediately.

‘I’m not sure what these are,’ I admitted, keeping my voice steady. ‘Can you help me trace them?’ The woman nodded, her fingers tapping swiftly on the keyboard. Her screen reflected a montage of numbers and account details, flickering in a way that made me feel as if I was peering into another world—one I wasn’t meant to see.

‘These appear to be regular transfers,’ she said after a moment. ‘But without the proper authorization, I can’t disclose the destination account.’ There it was, the first wall of silence, and I could feel the chill of the air conditioning seep into my bones.

The total amounts varied, each transfer pulling anywhere from $500 to $3,000. I was staring at a total of $15,000 missing from our savings over the last six months. ‘Thank you,’ I managed to say, folding the statement back into its envelope. The banker glanced at me, perhaps seeing the tension I worked so hard to mask.

‘Is there anything else I can assist you with?’ she asked, her tone professional but gentle.

‘No, that’s it for now,’ I replied, standing to leave. Outside, the sun was bright, contrasting sharply with the knot of confusion tightening in my chest. This wasn’t just about money; it was about trust, and the breach felt as tangible as the paper in my hand.

Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️