"Perhaps he means well. It was wonderful. Mike and Shari sat at the kitchen table eating potato chips. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. She knew it was to be a long night, and her stomach turned with the knowledge that Cathy and Larry Beck would be waiting to pick her up after the questioning, which meant they would be up all night despite the fact they both had jobs to go to in the morning. McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. . ’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. He whispered in her ear. “I’m being honest with you. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead.
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