I signed where he'd marked with quick, careless strokes, then shoved the papers back at him. "There. Are we done?"
"Yeah. Thank you, Naya. I know this has been hard on you." He tucked the folder away carefully, and there was something in his expression that I couldn't quite read. Relief, maybe. Or satisfaction. "Listen, I need to tell you something. About Isabella's surgery."
"I don't want to hear about Isabella."
"Just listen for a second." His voice took on that pleading quality that used to make me cave every time. "The surgery costs way more than we thought. Almost two hundred thousand dollars. Her insurance won't cover most of it because of a pre-existing condition clause. I've been trying to get the money together, but it's been impossible."
Why was he telling me this? What did he expect me to do about it?
