“Good,” Grant said. “Desk stuff. Missing items. Whatever. Doesn’t have to be true, it just has to be on paper. She can’t afford a lawyer. Nobody’s going to check.”
I put my hand over my mouth.
Grant, sitting by the window, closed his eyes.
On the screen, his voice kept going.
“And the landlord’s all set,” he said. “Pruitt took the five hundred. He wrote the letter. Unsanitary. Not appropriate for a minor. Her mother irons dish towels, Jerry, it’s ridiculous. But it’ll look good in a binder.”
He laughed again.
“Two more weeks,” he said. “Then I get the kid, I don’t pay a dime in support, and she can go back to waiting tables. Win-win.”
The video kept playing for another minute. Grant talked about golf. Then he hung up and left the room.
The camera stayed on the desk lamp. After a long moment, the small hand came back into the frame. It picked up the T-rex. Then the camera shook, as if someone small had grabbed it and was holding it very tightly.
