receipt folder. Daniel’s hand.
And tucked beneath the receipt, half visible, was a second card.
Not mine.
Not Harold Pruitt’s.
A corporate card from my company, issued to Brent Kowalski, the CFO I had paid to leave kindly.
I stared at it.
“Brent was there?”
Frank nodded toward the screen. “Back table. Baseball cap. Terrible disguise. My nephew hides weed continue reading …
