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... ood every once in a while.
If every day was exactly like how yesterday was, I’d probably be long-dead somewhere in my early thirties.
Nothing much else happened for a little while there. I tended to a few more customers, swept the floor a little, and by ten Irene had finished with her jotting and scribbling, scooping up an entire mountainous pile of organized papers, before cramming the entire wad into a folder on the empty stool beside her.
“Are detectives always busy th ...
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