Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
The screen door at the back of the kitchen creaked open, then slammed closed with a dull bang that echoed through the building.
Carter stood up from his chair, his knees making a small popping sound in the quiet office.
“Let’s get Henry,” Carter said.
The main dining room was completely quiet, the lunch rush still hours away and the grill turned down to a low simmer.
Henry sat on the last stool near the pie case, his shoulders hunched forward and his large, rough hands clasped together in his lap. He was wearing his clean flannel shirt, the collar slightly frayed at the edges, and his old work boots were free of any fresh mud.
“Henry,” Carter said, sliding onto the stool next to him.
The older man did not look up immediately, his gaze fixed on the small yellow puddle of light on the laminate counter.
“I brought the paperwork from the bank,” Carter said, laying the thick blue ledger on the counter between them.
“I didn’t take any money, Mr. Carter,” Henry said, his formal voice barely louder than the hum of the old milk dispenser behind them. “I’ve never taken a penny that wasn’t mine in seventy-one years.”
