Nineteen Thousand Dollars, a Forged Signature, and a Flight to the Dominican Republic
Her eyes were already shut as sleep pulled her back down into the pillow.
I pulled the corner of the waffle blanket over her bare shoulder, tucking the hem under the rabbit’s worn paws.
I stepped back from the bed, my boots silent on the waxed tile as I slipped out the door into the corridor.
The wall clock over the intake desk read 1722 when I reached the empty corridor.
The phone in my pocket buzzed twice, followed by a long, steady vibration against my hip.
The screen lit up with a local seven-five-seven number that had belonged to Patricia for fifteen years.
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