Instead of turning toward the hallway with the restrooms I walked directly toward the glass doors, pretending to struggle with nausea while gripping my purse tightly. The security guard glanced at me briefly and then looked away without suspicion.
The moment I stepped outside the hot Texas air hit my face and cleared my head instantly.
I continued acting sick until I reached the corner three blocks away, where I finally stopped and leaned against a brick wall while gasping for breath.
Then I did the only thing that felt safe. I ran to my parents’ house.
Twenty minutes later I sat on the bed in my childhood bedroom with my back pressed against the door while my mother, Rachel Monroe, stared at me in confusion and my father, Harold Monroe, stood beside the dresser with his arms folded. My father had spent most of his career as a bank auditor, which meant numbers and financial risks were second nature to him.
“Tell us again,” he said slowly. “Start from the beginning.”
I handed him the crumpled note with trembling fingers. “Mom, Dad, Diane took me to deposit a billion dollars today and the banker slipped me this note and told me to run because something was wrong.”