The rain in New Orleans does not wash things clean. It makes everything darker, heavier, like the city itself is trying to drown the evidence.
Corinne Hayes knew this better than anyone. She had spent the last six years chasing shadows through the French Quarter's alleys, following leads that went cold, talking to women who had learned not to talk at all. Her office was a cramped room above a jazz bar on Rampart Street, and the sign on the door said what it said: C. HAYES - PRIVATE INQUIRIES. She did not do adultery cases. She did not...
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