Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

the door, waiting for Frank to appear with the key to the AV booth.

“Is that the folder?” Arthur asked, his eyes dropping to the manila envelope resting on my lap.

“It is,” I said, sliding my palm over the smooth cardboard.

“You have no proof that will hold up in a civil court, Martha,” he said, clearing his throat again. “The original contract has been continue reading …