My house. Nile’s house. The house with the blue door. Rented out by the week to strangers who would put their wet towels on the porch railing he sanded by hand.
“Mr. Ashford. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because he asked me to,” Miles said quietly. “He said he couldn’t say it to you himself yet. He said he wanted you to know everything. No more stories.”
I didn’t say anything for a while.
“He’s selling the BMW,” Miles added. “And he’s set up a payment plan with me.
