For Seven Years I Sent Forty Thousand Dollars Every January, Until Emma Finally Spoke
The room smelled of floor wax and stale cigar smoke.
Howard sat behind his metal desk.
He wore a heavy wool suit that looked ten years out of style.
His pocket notebook rested on a tall stack of files.
He tapped the notebook against his knee twice before pointing to a thick brown paper folder.
“I pulled the unfiled addendum from the Highway 24 crash,” Howard said in his low, gravelly monotone.
“I cross-referenced the dates with the county clerk.”
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