The Wistful Skyline
The rain in Chicago does not wash things clean; it only makes the grime slicker, more dangerous, and impossible to see until you slip. I was forty-two years old, a federal agent with fifteen years of service and a hollow ache in my chest that no amount of whiskey could fill, and I had just been told that my wife, Clara, was dead. The coroner’s report said suicide, an overdose of prescription...
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