Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table

Ranata slid the rings up to her knuckle and pushed them back down.

“You said Fay needed emergency cash to keep the eighty acres out of foreclosure,” Arthur said.

He stood up.

His wooden chair scraped loudly against the linoleum floor.

“Where is my money?”

Desmond shifted his weight against the edge of the kitchen counter.

He had retreated to the corner near the sink when I first opened the brown folder.

“Desmond,” Arthur said.