How a Fourteen-Dollar Yellow Baby Blanket Brought Down a Regional Director
“They’ve got the yellow blanket,” I said.
I pressed my right hand flat on my breastbone and felt the hard, uneven pounding of my heart under my fingers.
My watch said three thirty-two.
“We’re not wasting my money on worthless baby junk,” David said, pulling out the very same words he’d used three weeks earlier in our kitchen.
He pushed the top edge of the envelope to within four inches of my chin.
“You sign this quitclaim deed right now on that end-cap shelf, or I walk out that door and leave you with nothing.”
“Fourteen dollars,” I said, keeping my voice as flat as I could manage.
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