The jukebox played a song I hadn't heard in twenty years, and I knew then that the woman who hired me was lying.
It was a blues number—slow, mournful, with a piano that sounded like it was being played in another room. The kind of song that doesn't tell you what happened so much as it makes you feel the shape of what happened, like running your fingers over a scar you don't remember getting. The jukebox was a Wurlitzer, 1947 model, chrome and marble and red neon that had gone dim with age. It sat in the...
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