Forty-One Thousand Dollars and a Yellow Paper Envelope
I’m not the one who points at you.”
Her mouth opened and then closed.
In eleven years I had never once seen that woman lose the end of a sentence.
“What do you want from me?” she said finally.
“I want you out of my father’s house by Friday noon, and I want you to take what’s yours and nothing that isn’t.”
She wiped at her eye with the back of her wrist, quick and angry, the way you swat a fly.
“Where is Dustin?” she asked.
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