Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

clicking sharply against the Formica. I could see the sweat on his temple, even in the cold draft of the diner’s entry.

“Someone went to the Seattle transit station to mail this to my private address,” I said. “They knew exactly what I was looking for.”

“Let it go, Martha,” Arthur said, his eyes avoiding mine as he stared at his blue cup. “You are going continue reading …