Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
Megan did not touch the pen. She looked at Troy, her jaw tight, her teeth pressing into her lower lip until the skin turned white.
“Is this the part where you call the sheriff?” Megan asked.
“That depends entirely on how quickly you write your names,” Carter said, adjusting his gold wedding band with a slow, deliberate twist of his thumb.
The room smelled of stale coffee and the damp wool of Linda’s coat.
Troy reached out first, his hand surprisingly steady as he grabbed the plastic ballpoint pen. He did not read the paragraphs above the line, nor did he look at Henderson, the auditor who was still sorting the physical slips into neat piles.
He dragged the pen across the paper with a dry, scratching sound.
“That’s forty-eight hundred dollars,” Troy said, tossing the pen back onto the desk. “We don’t have that kind of cash sitting in a drawer.”
“The agreement gives you twelve months,” Linda said, pulling the first copy toward herself to check the signature. “You will make a payment of four hundred dollars on the first of every month, mailed directly to the corporate office in Decatur.”
