Clara found a forged receipt for forty thousand dollars

driver sleeping in a back booth. I sat at the far end of the counter, where the laminate was worn down to the brown backing near the pie case. Marcus was behind the counter, using a blue kitchen towel to wipe his brow before arranging three fresh cherry pies on the wire shelves.

“Just coffee, Clara?” he asked, his voice raspy.

“Yes, please,” I said, continue reading …