The Scarred Detective
The rain in Chicago doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker. Jack Callahan stood on the corner of State and Adams and let it run down the scar that cut across his face like a knife had drawn a line between who he was and who he'd become. The scar didn't hurt anymore. It was just there—a raised, pink ribbon of tissue that made people look twice and look away faster. He didn't...
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