’ ‘Dear me. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. . ” He was dressed in his uniform of a Polo shirt and twill pants. ‘You don’t mean to say she’s here?’ ‘Was,’ Gerald corrected. “Uh, I think I might, Shari. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote.
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