“Besides,” she said, “the money will help people.”
“That doesn’t automatically make everything about how it arrived good.”
“No.”
She folded her hands.
“But returning it without asking him might be another way of deciding for him.”
That stopped me.
Denise pointed at Marjorie.
“This is why we put her in charge of money.”
Marjorie smiled.
“I thought it was because nobody else wanted to do spreadsheets.”
“Two things can be true.”
We finished the paperwork.
Then Denise and I walked home together.
Larksburg Court was quiet.
Porch lights glowed behind rows of old maple trees, and the September air had finally cooled.
Denise lived three houses past mine.
The Caldwell house stood at the end of the cul-de-sac, larger than everything around it without being gaudy.
Most nights light spilled from the kitchen.
Tonight the house was dark.
“Do you think Ethan’s okay?” Denise asked.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he lost a grappling match, not his identity.”
She glanced at me.
“You really don’t think losing bothered him?”
“Of course it bothered him.”
“That sounds contradictory.”
“It isn’t.”
We stopped in front of my house.
Denise looked at the business card still in my hand.
