For Seven Years I Sent Forty Thousand Dollars Every January, Until Emma Finally Spoke

I drank the cold tea and watched Emma quietly twirl the ribbon on her sweater sleeve.

At nine o’clock the next morning, Howard Finch was waiting on a wooden bench in the lobby of the Oak Creek Police Station.

A uniformed officer stood behind bulletproof glass, sorting a heavy stack of morning mail into metal slots.

The lobby smelled of chemical floor wax and the wet wool of officers coming in off the street.

Howard wore a tan corduroy jacket.

He tapped his pocket notebook against his knee.