Shadows on the freeway
The letter arrived on a Wednesday, unmarked, no return address. Just a single sentence typed on plain paper: If you want the truth, come to Santa Monica Pier at midnight. Third pillar. Jack Morrison read it twice, set it on the desk beside his whiskey glass, and stared at the neon glow filtering through his blinds. Los Angeles spread below him like a circuit board—every light a life, every...
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