Free The Tell-Tale Con by Aimee Gilchrist Page B

second we got to school. 
    â€œThis is nuts,” he reminded me, one more time, as he was getting into the car.  As though the fifty times he’d already mentioned he thought I was insane weren’t enough to really get the point across.
    â€œIf we don’t do this now how will we ever know who C.A. is?  They gave Nate twelve thousand dollars, Harrison.  Maybe to demon hunt you.  We need to know who they are and why they did that before they decide they’d like to kill you, too.”
    â€œRemind me again why we can’t leave this to the police?”
    I flinched at the word police.  “Well, for one, because you yourself said they suspect you.  Also, because we don’t know anything yet.  I mean, what if it’s nothing?  Do you want to tell crazy hair and partner that you think some dude paid your cousin twelve thousand dollars to make you think you were insane and then maybe they killed him, but you’re not sure why?  Or maybe none of that happened at all?”
    He sighed heavily.  “I guess not.”
    â€œAll you have to do is ask the teller for a copy of the deposited check.  If the person’s initials are C.A. then we find some way to prod the police.  If their last name is Harrison, it’s all a coincidence, and we go on our merry way.”
    He put the car in gear and jetted out into traffic.  “I don’t know.  I mean, this is illegal.”
    â€œWell, you don’t have to.  But the police know nothing about this whole demon thing.  You can either try to explain the theory to them, or you can let it go and never wonder again.  Can you handle never knowing?”
    He gripped the wheel hard and then slammed it with the palm of his hand.  “No.”
    After that, he drove to the nearest branch of Nate’s bank without comment.  It was hardly after seven, and the bank was opening its doors.  Not an ideal time for scamming.  A crowd of bored and restless people in line would have been more opportune. 
    I scanned the lobby as we breached the double doors. 
    One guard, mid-sixties, bored and disinterested, probably already thinking about lunch.  Two people waiting in line, an elderly woman in a seasonably warm scarf and a man in a My Little Pony shirt.  There was a third person, a woman at the desks where people applied for home loans, looking pale and nervous. 
    I took in the tellers.  Only two were working.  A young man who didn’t have a clue what he was doing yet and an efficiently working Latina woman in a silk blouse that tied at the neck in one of those weird trends that were inexplicably reemerging. 
    I wanted the man, but of course, he was already helping someone.  The woman called for the next person in line.  I considered delaying our approach in an attempt to get Mr. Third-Day-of-Training, but I couldn’t find a way to communicate the idea to Harrison before he started forward.  Sighing, I hurried to catch up with him. 
    The teller took a moment before looking at us, her French manicured nails clicking against the counter as, with the speed and skill of a blackjack dealer, she arranged and stacked papers into piles before paper clipping them together and tossing them into her drawer.  She gleamed her sparkling white smile our way. 
    â€œCan I help you?”
    Harrison lowered his sunglasses to the end of his nose, but didn’t take them off.  “I need a copy of a check I deposited three weeks ago.”
    â€œCertainly.  Can I see your driver’s license?”
    It was a standard way of accessing accounts, but I still felt like she was on to us, asking for it.  Boy, I was losing my edge.  But, I tolerably managed looking bored, and Harrison did an incredible job of looking bored, like this was merely another errand, and moreover, one he didn’t want to be doing.  He had considerably more acting skills