“Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. The man was dangerous.
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