photographs scheduled later that month.
She knew I hadn’t worn it yet.
“You asked him about that?” I said.
“Yes.”
“What did he tell you?”
Her voice dropped.
“He told me not to contact you. He said he’d handle you.”
I sat perfectly still.
“And you continued selling my clothes?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She started crying.
“I needed the money. And he was my brother. I wanted to believe him.”
“But you knew something wasn’t right.”
“Yes.”
For once, there was no excuse left.
I told her to send me every
