Margaret Walked Away From Scottsdale With a Blue Mug and Eighty-Nine Million Dollars
I put the cell phone face down on the nightstand next to Harold’s blue mug.
I didn’t call a soul, and I didn’t switch on another light in the room.
I sat on the edge of the casita bed with the quiet slip of paper resting in my lap.
I folded the slip twice and pushed it deep into the zippered coin pouch of my wallet before I set my blue mug down on the breakfast nook table.
Daniel came into the kitchen at seven thirty with his leather briefcase dangling from his left hand.
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