Clara found a forged receipt for forty thousand dollars

mugs of tea resting on the small wooden table between our wicker chairs.

“You’re late,” Evelyn said, tapping her glasses against her cheek.

“I walked the long way,” I said, sitting down and pulling my skirt over my knees.

The clay mug was warm against my cold fingers, the steam rising in thin, twisting ribbons.

“I saw Donald’s car at the gas station before continue reading …