The Golden Cellar
The rain on the windshield of my truck was a constant, gray hiss. It blurred the world into a smear of mud and wet asphalt. I was driving north, toward the Holloway estate, with my hand resting on the steering wheel. My knuckles were white. The radio played a low static, the only sound besides the engine’s hum. I had been a cop for twenty years. I knew the look of a place before I saw it. I...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews