The girl was still eighteen, after all. A flicker of guilt crossed her face when she saw my "heartfelt" support, like she was wrestling with whether to tell me the truth.
As if I cared. I already knew she'd found her birth mother in Ravenshire.
Since their tearful reunion was so "precious," I decided to pour gasoline on that fire.
With a cold smile, I fetched a dusty box from the back room and shoved it into her hands.
Bewildered, she reached in and pulled out a compensation certificate.
Her worthless father, Marcus Scott, had taken that dangerous construction job without insurance, chasing quick cash. He didn't even last a week before taking a header off some scaffolding. Died before the ambulance arrived.
The contractors tossed us a pitiful 400 dollars out of pity. No life insuranc
