The Emotional Harvest
Los Angeles in 1947 was a city of neon promises and rain-slicked lies. I spent my nights in a haze of cheap bourbon and cigarette smoke, operating out of an office that smelled of old paper and failed dreams. My name is Leo, and I specialize in finding things that people want to stay lost. The case started with a woman named Claire. She walked into my office wearing a midnight-blue dress and a...
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