She hurried toward a glass-walled office and whispered to a tall man in a suit. I saw his expression change—from curiosity to shock, then to something that looked like fear.
My stomach twisted.
People in the lobby were watching now, not openly staring, but clearly aware something was wrong.
The man finally stepped out. “Ms. Carter?” he asked gently. “Please come with me.”
Inside his office, he closed the door slowly. “I scanned your card,” he said, lowering his voice. “This account requires special verification. It isn’t a standard account.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
He turned the monitor toward me. Most of the information was locked, but one section was visible:
Account holders:
Rebecca Carter
Michael Carter
My name. And my father’s.
Below it, highlighted in red:
Access level: Classified — Tier 3.
My breath caught. “Classified?”
The manager exhaled. “Ms. Carter… whatever your father left behind wasn’t just money.”
My life, already in pieces, shifted again.
“My name is Daniel Whitmore,” he said carefully. “This account is tied to a restricted financial network. Before I proceed, I need to verify your identity.”
“What kind of network?” I whispered.