Thirty-Six Pages of Bank Receipts and the Chicago Mortgage Transfer I Finally Canceled
“I need you to show me the receipts for the heating oil,” I told her.
Margaret took a step back, her jaw going tight.
Her hand went still on the towel.
“I don’t have to show you receipts in my own home,” she said.
“I was going to ask whether you could send next month’s three thousand dollars early.
Today, if you can.”
“No,” I said firmly.
Margaret stared at me in the dim light of the driveway.
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