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... sliced through the quiet. "Ms. Shaw, your mother requests your immediate presence at home." She paused, her voice carefully neutral. "Mr. Simpson is there."
Just like that, my good mood evaporated.
"Jack?" I sat up, irritation creeping into my voice. "Let me guess—he’s there to dump his mess on my doorstep?"
"Should I arrange the car?"
"Yes. And Rachel?" I swung my legs over the side of the bed. "Clear my afternoon schedule. I have a feeling this won’t be quick." ...
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