Michael Carter Pushed Me Toward a Fifty Million Dollar Funeral

PART 3 — THE PHOTOGRAPH, THE DEBT, AND THE LEDGE

At nine twenty, we packed in the small spare bedroom.

Michael pulled two wool hats from the closet while I folded a sweater and put it beside the thermos.

“Bring the thicker gloves,” he said.

“The ones with the worn palms.”

“They’re in the laundry basket.”

“I washed them last night.”

I found them on the dresser, folded together in a neat pair.