The Silvertone Murders
I The alley behind the Silver Dollar saloon smelled of rain and regret. Jack Moretti leaned against the brick wall, his back to the wet surface, a half-empty bottle of moonshine warming in his coat pocket. The streetlamp above him flickered—the filament was dying, casting a sickly yellow light that made the puddles on the ground look like oil paintings gone wrong. He was twenty-six years old...
0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 2 Views 0 önizleme