Davis brushed some cereal dust off the hundred-dollar bills, stacked them next to the sink, and then grabbed them.
The entire stack fit in one hand.
“A hundred thousand dollars,” he said, and offered it to me. “No way, Davis. I can’t—”
“Aza, the cops found, like, two million dollars executing their warrant, but I bet they didn’t even get half of it.
Everywhere I look, I find these stacks, okay?
Not to sound out of touch, but for my dad, this is a goddamned rounding error. It’s a reward for not sharing the picture.
I’ll have our lawyer call you. Simon Morris. He’s nice, just a little lawyery.”
“I’m not trying—” “But I can’t know that,” he said.
“Please, just—if you still call or text or whatever, I’ll know it’s not about the reward.
And you will, too. That would be a nice thing to know—even if you don’t call.”
He walked over to a closet, opened it, stuffed the money into a blue tote bag, and offered it to me.
He looked like a kid now—his watery brown eyes, the fear and fatigue in his face, like a kid waking up from a nightmare or something.
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