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

Desmond was coming up the brick front steps carrying a plastic-wrapped dry cleaning bag.

He had just parked his new silver Mercedes in the driveway.

He stopped when he saw me.

“Fay,” he said.

“I didn’t know you were coming by today.”

“Just having tea with Ranata,” I said.

Desmond looked down at his expensive leather loafers.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.