Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name
He glanced up through his wire-rimmed glasses and waved me in.
“Morning, Penelope,” Donald said, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose as he came around his desk.
“I’ve got the final paperwork all ready for you.”
“Thanks, Donald,” I said, sitting down in the armchair.
Donald picked up a cashier’s check that lay flat in the middle of his desk.
“The court-ordered seizure from the Westfall joint accounts cleared at nine this morning.
The entire forty-two thousand dollars is back under your sole control.”
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