“This?” Henderson sneered, flipping through the pages. “This is trash. Just low-class scribbles.”

“Please,” Maya whispered. Her voice was wet with tears. “My dad gave me that.”

“Your dad?” Mrs. Vane let out a sharp laugh. “You mean the criminal? The one who comes here smelling like an oil change? He isn’t here to save you, cripple. He’s probably halfway to Mexico by now.”

Henderson closed the book.

He didn’t hand it back.

He walked over to the large industrial trash can in the corner. He held the book high, making sure Maya watched.

“Trash belongs with trash,” he said.

Thud.

He dropped it in.