Myra
I sat at the small secretary's desk in the corner of the apartment, the same desk where I used to sit to do my homework in high school. The "World’s Best Tutor" mug was sitting cold and untouched at my elbow. I refused to drink from it again. Every time my gaze drifted to the faded gold lettering, I felt a phantom ache in my chest—a reminder of the girl I used to be before I learned that "hope" was just a four-letter word for "disappointment."
I pulled the heavy, leather-bound ledgers toward me. To anyone else, these were books of financial history.
To me, they were a crime scene.
As I flipped through the pages, my heart sank lower with every column of numbers. Dot’s handwriting, once a sharp and elegant script, had become shaky and erratic over the last year. It was a roadmap o
