Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
“There is a grocery store three blocks down,” Troy said, pointing toward the front window with his thumb. “They have a coin machine in the lobby, and they might have some lunch specials that fit your budget.”
Carter’s hand went to his pocket, his fingers brushing the edge of his leather wallet, his heart heavy with the realization of how cold his own business had become while he sat in his comfortable office in Decatur. The rot was not in the ledger; it was right here, in the way his employees treated the people who kept the lights on.
Before he could pull his hand from his pocket, the kitchen door swung open with a soft whoosh of air, and Henry Lawson walked out into the counter area. His green apron was wet down the center from the dish sprayer, and he was wiping his hands on a dry white towel with slow, steady movements.
“Excuse me,” Henry said, his polite, formal words stopping the mother just as she was turning toward the exit.
