The Shadow in the Safehouse
The rain in Los Angeles didn't wash anything away; it just turned the dust into a slick, black grease that clung to everything. I sat in my office, the neon sign from the diner across the street blinking a rhythmic, sickly red across my desk. My name is Marlowe. I’m a private investigator, which is a polite way of saying I get paid to look at things other people want to keep hidden. Vesper...
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