Clara found a forged receipt for forty thousand dollars

placing a two-dollar bill on the counter.

He poured the coffee into a thick white mug, the steam rising between us, smelling of chicory.

“Marcus,” I began, keeping my voice low. “I need to ask you about Donald.”

Marcus froze for a second, the glass door of the pie case still half-open in his hand.

“I don’t talk about former employees,continue reading …