“Because she does not trust the school to keep quiet,” Marilyn said, her words coming in a fast, clipped rhythm. “Or because she wanted to make sure nobody else saw it first. She probably told the principal she was handling it internally.”
I zoomed in on the signature line at the bottom, but the image was too grainy to make out the cursive letters.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard as I started typing a reply to Donald, my screen casting a pale blue light across Marilyn’s worn green corduroy couch.
The couch had cost me four hundred dollars at a yard sale three years ago, and the fabric was still stiff and smelled faintly of someone else’s cedar chest.
“Ask him where the original is,” Marilyn said, her keys clicking against each other as she sat on the edge of the cushion.
“I am typing that now,” I said.
