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

He pushed his glasses up by the bridge.

“Are those the files?” I asked.

“These are the last ten years of your tax returns,” he said.

“Printed on heavy stock, exactly as you asked.”

He slid the stack across the polished wood.

I pulled out a leather chair and sat down.

“I want a hard copy of every single document,” I said.

“Before the demolition deadline.”