The Wistful Mountain
The rain slicks the asphalt. You drive north. The city blurs behind you. It is a grey smear of glass and steel. You are leaving it. You are leaving the case. You are leaving the truth. Your hands are steady on the wheel. They are usually not. You are a detective. You find things. You find the missing. You find the lies. You have done it for twenty years. You are good at it. You are too good at...
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