“THE WIRE TRANSFER was completed yesterday at the request of George Callahan.” The financial advisor for Pacific Bank and Trust in San Francisco watched Sophie Callahan over a bland manila file folder. “The account is empty.”
Empty. Sophie shifted sideways in the leather chair and crossed her legs as if that might minimize the impact of the woman’s firm yet unapologetic voice. An ache wrapped around Sophie’s throat and squeezed. “You’re certain?”
“Yes. The funds have been withdrawn.” She slid a floral tissue box closer to Sophie as if on cue. As if the efficient financial advisor had played out this scenario many times before and the tissues were standard procedure.
Sophie straightened her shoulders, refusing to slide back into the supple leather chair. The leather was pliant, not because it was expensive but rather from all the customers who’d collapsed after Beth Perkins, senior financial advisor, personally delivered their nightmares. “George Callahan is my father.”
“According to our paperwork, he’s joint owner of the savings account.” Beth opened the manila folder and spun the documents to face Sophie.
Sophie recognized the flourish of her grandmother’s signature in black ink on the bottom of the top page. Sophie’s grandmother had added Sophie to her savings account seven years ago, the very same day her grandmother had told Sophie about her terminal cancer. Her grandmother had never mentioned that her son, George Callahan, was also listed on the savings account. And Sophie had been too busy, first caring for her grandmother those final months, then building her pet-store business and watching her three-year-old niece, to worry about who had access to the bank account.
She struggled now to make herself heard. “All of the money has been moved, then?”
And by all of the money, Sophie referred to the funds her grandmother’s trust had released into the savings account at the first of the year with specific instructions to use for the purchase of the property where Sophie and her niece, Ella, lived. Sophie also referred to the additional money from the Pampered Pooch that she’d deposited at the end of every week so that one day, one day exactly twenty-nine days from now, Sophie would hold the title to the building in her own hands. And Ella would never again have to worry about losing the only home she’d ever known.
Sophie couldn’t let Ella down. She couldn’t fail her only niece. She couldn’t become another rotted branch on the careless Callahan family tree.
“Yes, all of the funds have been transferred from the account.” Beth put on a pair of trendy violet-framed glasses.
Ella would’ve loved the smooth lightweight glasses. But the oval shape only sharpened the woman’s gaze, as if that alone would force Sophie to focus.
Sophie was focused. On her empty bank account.
“There’s a balance due for the wire-transfer fee.” Beth closed the folder and pulled out her keyboard. “Usually that’s deducted from the funds, but for some reason that didn’t happen yesterday. Do you intend to clear that now?”
Sophie jerked back against the chair. “A fee?”
Her father had drained their joint savings account and left Sophie to pay the fee. Her back seemed to be pinned against the leather chair like the large Post-it note tacked to Beth’s bulletin board with “I love you mommy” written in blue marker and stamped with a greasy fingerprint. Sophie had never written notes like that to her parents. Notes like that refused to stick to vodka and gin bottles. As for fingerprints—well, generations of Callahan fingerprints were well documented at police stations across the nation.
Perhaps Sophie should’ve written notes like that to her father. Perhaps if she’d been a better daughter, George Callahan might’ve been a better father. A better father would not have drained the savings account without telling anyone. A better daughter would’ve been more diligent in anticipating such a disaster.
Beth stopped typing and looked across the desk at Sophie. “Would you like me to deduct the fee from your checking account?”
Sophie nodded, her head going up and down like one of those bobblehead dogs stuck to a vinyl dashboard. Because ready agreement was expected from people in stunned stupors. Shock scratched at her throat, stealing her voice and sucking every molecule of fresh air in the cubicle.
Beth’s smile was more of a flat grin, a quick twitch of acknowledgment that neither upset her glasses nor loosened her hair-sprayed updo.
Sophie’s account could not be empty. Not after all the sleepless nights, tears and hard work. That money had ensured Ella a home. That money had ensured that Ella would be safe.
Sophie slipped her fingers under her legs to keep herself still. To keep herself from wringing her hands or running her palms over her jeans in