Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table
They thought the land was being repossessed by a bank.
“She told you that,” I said.
“She talks to your creditors,” Desmond said.
“She handles the legal notices for you so you don’t have to stress about the paperwork.”
I hadn’t received a legal notice from anyone in ten years.
My property taxes were paid in full every single spring.
Desmond set the piece of firewood back on the pile.
He patted my shoulder awkwardly, letting his hand linger a second before dropping it.
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