Days turned into a week, each one dragging longer than the last as I waited for the report. I went about my daily routines, each task tinged with an underlying tension. Finally, the call came. The bank manager’s voice was clear over the phone. “The report is ready,” she said, her words both a relief and a new source of anxiety. In the office once more, she handed me the folder, the pages inside promising answers—or more questions.
There they were, the transactions laid bare. Each one annotated, detailing where the money had moved. I traced the lines with a pen, connecting them like a detective following a lead. It all pointed to another account, one I recognized from shared family dealings. My brother’s. The realization hit like a cold wave, but I kept my expression neutral, my mind already planning the next steps.
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