Marcus picked up the paper, his jaw working as he shoved it into his apron pocket without opening it. He turned his back on Donald, picking up a stack of heavy white mugs and sliding them into the industrial dishwasher with a loud clatter.
Donald stood there for a moment, his hand hovering over his watch before he turned and walked out, the bell above the door jingling behind him.
I paid my bill, left three dollars on the counter, and followed him out to the gravel lot.
By half past three, the clouds had bruised to a deep purple over the lake, carrying the scent of damp pine needles. I found Donald’s sedan parked in the driveway of the cottage on Cedar Road, the engine still ticking as it cooled.
Donald was leaning against the hood, a blue folder tucked under his arm as he stared out at the gray water.
“Donald,” I said, walking up the gravel path, my shoes crunching on the dry pine needles. “I found a bank slip in Martha’s house.”
