Margaret Walked Away From Scottsdale With a Blue Mug and Eighty-Nine Million Dollars
“Nobody’s putting me on any shuttle bus, Caleb,” I said.
He gave a single nod, satisfied, and dashed off toward the back wall where a bird had settled on the mesquite branch.
At ten that night, I sat at the pine desk in my casita bedroom with the little lamp turned down low.
I opened the manila folder Arthur Vance had given me at our second meeting in his law office on Shea Boulevard.
Inside was a single printed page from my old credit union branch in Tucson, listing account activity over the past three weeks.
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