My Brother Hid a Recording Module Beneath His Daughter’s Dining Chair

I sat with the wet ring her cup had left on the table.

Marcus came down the lobby stairs at eight in the same loafers he had worn to dinner, and he was already holding a folded check between two fingers.

“A hundred and twenty thousand,” he said, sitting down without being asked.

“Near enough what the last grant came to.

This is more.”

“You wrote it in the lobby?”

“I wrote it in the car.” He held it out.

“Take it.