Dirty Money
“Ten fifty-dollar bills, please, dear.” The elderly woman, so short she could barely see over the counter, slid her bank card through the slot too slowly. Teller Wyndy Elkins smiled, took her card, and expertly glided it through. Maybe Wyndy was hungry, but her mouth salivated slightly as she noted that the customer’s outfit — a worn, caramel-colored cape with white fur lining. It reminded Wyndy of a cream-filled donut. The woman’s face seemed familiar, though Wyndy didn’t think she had waited on her before. The account appeared on her screen. Clare Cormer. Balance:...
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