Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

his face pale under the fluorescent tube lights.

“Where are the books, Martha?” Donald asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

They were in the small office behind the potting shed. I led the three men down the narrow hallway, the concrete floor cold beneath my thin-soled work shoes.

The vintage desk fan was silent on the filing cabinet, its black continue reading …