Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

She holds my ID up against her computer screen, then
nods. “Yep, that’s you all right! Gosh, I wish I had your hair. It
even looks good in a DMV picture. My license picture makes
me look like a corpse.”
The bank has a copy of my driver’s license.
David took my license out of my wallet and opened a safety
deposit box without telling me.
What the actual fuck is going on?
When she hands my ID back to me, I ask casually, “My
cousin wants to rent a box, too. What does she need to open
one?”
“She just needs to bring in two forms of ID, sign the lease
agreement, and pay the key deposit and first year’s rent. The
smaller boxes start at fifty-five dollars annually.”
“She wants to have her mom be on the box lease, too.
Does she need to come in personally, or can my cousin just put
her mom’s name on the lease?”
The teller shakes her head. “Everyone who’s on the lease
must be present at the time of execution, provide a signature,
and present two forms of approved ID.”
So Google was right after all. The plot thickens.
“Great, I’ll let her know.”
Beaming, she says, “Here’s my card. Just tell her to ask for
me when she comes in, and I’ll make sure she’s taken good
care of. Come on around over here, and I’ll let you into the
room where we keep the boxes.”
I stuff the card into my purse and follow the teller on the
opposite side of the counter as she walks to one side of the
lobby. She presses a button on her side of the counter. The
door unlatches with a soft mechanical snick.
Grateful I put on extra-strength antiperspirant this
morning, I follow her down a small corridor lined with
employees’ offices, then we turn into another hallway.
“Here we go.”