We drive in silence for a while. Then I ask, “Did you find the guy?”
Simone nods. “Raymond Briggs. The ex-employee. He lives in a motel off Lincoln Avenue. Got fired two months after you went in. Pretty bitter about it too.”
Perfect.
That afternoon, we visit him. He’s rough around the edges—smells like cheap whiskey and despair—but when I show him continue reading …
