The Last Marathon
The rain hadn't stopped in three days. It drummed against the window of my office like a hundred fingers trying to get in. I was nursing a glass of rye whiskey when she walked in. Dorothy Lance. Oscar winner. Eternal twenty-eight. She sat in the shadow of my doorway and told me she wanted me to find out who killed a runner named Margaret O'Brien. "Officially, it was dehydration," she said. Her...
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