The First Mercantile Bank on Harborside Drive was exactly as Vance had described it—a granite temple built in the 1920s, its vaulted ceilings painted with murals depicting the city's founding, its marble floors polished by a century of nervous footsteps. Nyla arrived just after dawn, the key Raina had given her pressed against her palm, its metal warm from being clutched in her hand for the entire walk from the clinic.
The manager on duty was a woman named Ellison—the same Ellison who had helped Vance access David Chen's safety deposit box two weeks earlier. She recognized Nyla from the detective's description, or perhaps from the photograph that had been circulating through the agency's surveillance network. Either way, she didn't ask questions. She simply led Nyla through the lobby, pas
