No Mercy in the Marshes
That money had the taste of rust in it. The first time I held it, I knew it wouldn't stay in my pocket long. Money like that never does. It's got a short shelf life, like milk left in the summer sun. It curdles. It turns. And when it turns, it takes you with it. Three thousand five hundred dollars. Five hundred for each of the five kids who went missing in Detroit that year and came back, more...
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