G. Foyle woke up on a pedestrian bridge in lower Manhattan.

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2026-05-04 01:48:45 -

He was wearing pajamas—blue flannel, the kind you buy at a department store on sale. He was also wearing one sneaker. The other was somewhere behind him, probably on the bridge, probably about to be swept up by the morning commute. His phone had seventeen missed calls. All from the same number. A number he did not recognize but whose voice he knew in his bones: Sarah Chen. His friend. His...

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