Clara found a forged receipt for forty thousand dollars

shoulders hunched under his grease-stained apron as he worked.

“Marcus,” I said, stepping inside onto the damp red tile floor.

He looked up, his brow furrowing as he wiped his forehead with a blue kitchen towel that smelled strongly of bleach. He did not smile, but he set the tray of mugs down on the metal rack with a loud, metallic clatter.

“We aren’t continue reading …