Her assistant, Monique, met her near the elevators. "You could have the check deposited electronically," Monique reminded her. "I can arrange it in about three minutes."
"I know," Evelyn said. "I'm going downtown anyway, and I promised Paula I'd collect the documents myself."
"Are you going to wear that?" Monique asked, gesturing toward the cardigan. It was a joke between them, but Evelyn glanced down at herself anyway. The navy wool was neat and comfortable, her charcoal trousers were pressed, and her low black shoes had been chosen for a day that involved more walking than ceremony.
"Is there something wrong with it?"
"Only if the board thinks your sweater is going to approve a loan portfolio," Monique replied.
Evelyn laughed and promised to change nothing. She left the hospital carrying a leather handbag, a slim folder of board notes, and the check secured inside an envelope marked with the hospital's finance department seal. The city was bright under a cold early-spring sun, with buses moving past intersections and a wind off Lake Michigan that made people keep their coats buttoned. She hailed a car and spent the ride reviewing questions she intended to ask about community lending access.
First National's downtown headquarters rose above the street in a tower of glass and limestone. The bank's public lobby occupied a broad ground-floor space with high ceilings, broad marble counters, and separate elevators for the offices above. Evelyn had attended meetings in the building dozens of times, but she rarely visited the public banking counter. That distinction would become important later, though not for the reason Chelsea imagined.
At 2:29 p.m., Evelyn entered through the revolving doors. A security guard nodded in greeting without recognizing her, and she nodded back. A little girl waiting with her father watched the revolving doors complete another turn and asked if they could ride around again. Evelyn smiled at her, remembering how Marcus had once tried to make the door spin faster with his feet.
The girl was Rosa Maldonado, five years old, recovering from cardiac surgery performed the previous year. Her father, Luis, held a folder containing small business loan documents and a grocery bag with a snack and coloring book. He had spent the afternoon trying to clarify charges on a business account he used for a neighborhood appliance repair shop. He did not recognize the surgeon who had consulted on his daughter's case; she wore scrubs and a mask in the hospital, and parents often remembered the voice more than the face.
Near a row of blue upholstered chairs sat Zoe Martinez, nineteen, a community-college student waiting for a replacement debit card. She had spent the previous ten minutes watching short videos on her phone and sending messages to her older sister. Beside the automated teller machines stood Marsha Ellis, a fifty-four-year-old nursing instructor who had come to deposit a check from an estate settlement. A few yards away, an older woman named Adele Barlow adjusted the pearls at her throat and tapped one shoe against the floor with visible impatience.