Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table
The plastic bottle of cinnamon creamer sat open next to her left elbow.
She looked at the blue ink, then up at my face.
“Is this real, Fay?” Helen asked.
Her voice barely carried across the table.
“Mr.
Gable verified the transfer yesterday,” I said.
“The land developer wired the money into my secure account on Tuesday morning.”
Arthur pulled his hand away from the closing document.
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