For Seven Years I Sent Forty Thousand Dollars Every January, Until Emma Finally Spoke
“You need photographic proof of what sits in Slip 14, who owns it, and how much it costs per month,” Carl said.
“I can’t drive to Oakridge every day without Eleanor noticing I’m gone,” I said.
Carl took a small white notepad from his shirt pocket and wrote down a phone number.
“Howard Finch,” Carl said.
“He retired from the sheriff’s department five years ago, and he knows how to gather evidence that holds up in court.”
By one-fifteen that afternoon, I was standing in the shaded alley behind Miller’s Corner Market beside the stacked wooden cabbage crates.
Howard Finch came around the side of the building carrying a small paper bag from the bakery.
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