The rain in Chicago doesn't fall—it attacks. It comes at you like it has a personal grudge, and Fran
The rain in Chicago doesn't fall—it attacks. It comes at you like it has a personal grudge, and Frank Keller understood personal grudges better than most men. He sat in his office on South State Street, the one above the laundromat that smelled perpetually of damp cotton and poor decisions, and watched the rain hammer against a window that hadn't been clean since Truman was president. The desk...
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