The woman who hired me walked into my office like she owned the building, which in Los Angeles was basically the same thing.
She was tall, dark-haired, and wore a dress that cost more than my annual rent. Her eyes were the color of whiskey left out too long—amber, with something burnt at the bottom. She sat down without being invited, placed a manila envelope on my desk, and told me her name was Marilyn Yang. "I need you to find someone," she said. Her voice was low, precise, the kind of voice that had learned early...
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