The bank lobby was quiet, the only sound being the rhythmic clicking of keyboards and the occasional murmur of a teller assisting a customer. I clutched the bank statement in my hand, the numbers glaring at me, refusing to change no matter how many times I blinked. My mother’s account showed a balance of zero. I tried not to fidget as the bank manager, a calm woman with a practiced smile, scanned through the computer screen. “It seems,” she said finally, “the account has been redirected.” Her voice was steady, but the words jabbed at me like sharp needles. I mumbled a thanks and hurried out, the envelope still crumpled in my grip. I needed to talk to my brother. But first, I had to understand how this happened. The paper trail would be the key. More questions than answers awaited, and I knew this was just the beginning of a much deeper issue.
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