The Femme in Red
The rain in Los Angeles doesn't fall the way it falls in other cities. It doesn't fall at all, not really — it hangs in the air like a question mark, a fine mist that gets in your shoes and your collar and your coffee and stays there until you forget what dry feels like. It was a Tuesday in March when Vivian Cross walked into my office. The rain was doing that thing — hanging, not falling — and...
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