The Weasel's Debt
The rain in Pittsburgh doesn't fall. It hangs. It waits. It decides when you've had enough. Ray Donovan sat in his third-floor walk-up above a Liberty Avenue laundromat and watched the drops race each other down a window that hadn't been clean since the war ended. He had a glass of bourbon on the table beside him and a case file on his lap that told him nothing he didn't already know. Jeremiah...
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