What the Bread Was For

Marlowe stood without waiting for him to speak.

“My daughter’s been waiting all morning to eat her breakfast with me,” she said, gathering her things.

There was no triumph in the way she said it, and that was what struck him hardest.

He had wronged her more completely than one person can usually wrong another, and now, in this small office, she held every card — the evidence, the truth, the moral high ground, the power to make him grovel.

Any amount of anger would have been justified.

She could have named exactly what he’d done, in front of the attorney, and made him hear every word of it.