No Redemption in Hollywood
The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the grime slicker. I stood in the service entrance of the Palm Springs estate, tray in hand, heart doing that thing it had been doing for the last six weeks—that fluttering, stupid thing that had no business existing in a chest that had spent twenty-six years learning not to trust anyone. Inside, the party was in full swing. I...
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