Nineteen Thousand Dollars, a Forged Signature, and a Flight to the Dominican Republic

She pulled a folded page from her blazer pocket and held it out.

I didn’t take it yet.

“October twentieth,” she said.

“Does that date mean anything to you?”

“Nothing happens on October twentieth.”

“Someone thought it did.”

I took the page.

The printer ink was a little smeared at the bottom edge, the way it gets when a cartridge is running low.