Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table
I didn’t go after him.
I walked back into the house, turned off the porch light, and locked the front door.
The next morning, the empty space in the yard looked huge.
The oil stain where my pickup usually parked was bare and black in the early sunlight.
I made a pot of coffee and poured a mug.
I left the cinnamon creamer in the refrigerator and drank it black, standing by the kitchen island.
I wiped the dirt off my hands onto my jeans.
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