The Imagination Thief
The woman walked into my office at ten minutes to six on a Tuesday, which is the worst time of day for a private eye. Ten minutes to six is when hope dies and resignation sets in. It's when you're sitting behind those half-closed blinds, nursing a whiskey that's more amber tint than actual whiskey, telling yourself you'll close up at six-thirty and go home to an empty apartment and an empty...
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