Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

ticked five times before anyone spoke again. The light outside was failing now, the late afternoon mist turning into a steady, cold rain that streaked the windowpanes with long, grey lines.

“Well now, we are not going to put a girl in jail,” I said.

Donald turned from the sink, his towel still in his hand. He looked at me, his eyes dark behind his clean continue reading …