The Memory of Falling Water
The water doesn't lie. It only remembers. Rose Callahan learned this the hard way, on a night in November when the rain was coming down so hard the windows of the Boston Harbor Hotel looked like they were crying. She remembered the taste of champagne—too sweet, with a metallic aftertaste she'd dismissed as her nerves. She remembered the gala: strings, donors in tuxedos, Senator Cross shaking...
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