“We’re going to talk, Marlene,” I said.
“With the door wide open, and with witnesses.
Because if we close it, you’ll tell them I fell on my own knife and stole your silver.”
Inside, the apartment wasn’t wrecked.
It was organized.
The dining table was covered in white paper, and on it my folders were laid out like exhibits at a trial — Premarital Savings.
Mortgage Down Payment.
Renovation Receipts.
Tiffany’s Outstanding Loans. In the center, sealed in a plastic sleeve, was the dried jade leaf.
I picked up the first folder.