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CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

1

TOMMY TRUITT’S RAMSHACKLE little house had no front porch steps. They had disintegrated into nothingness over the years. This is what Richard noticed first about the place, and the way the whole structure leaned. Just a pinch to one side.

“Didn’t know I’d be renting a lean-to,” joked Tom as he showed him around, “when I read the ad in the paper. Woops . . . renting with option to buy, make that.” Truitt hopped up onto the porch with the ease of someone who’d done it countless times, offering a hand back to Richard and helping hoist him up over the space where the stairs should have been. “I’ll get to that one of these days.”

Richard nodded. His friend lived alone out here, so the house was sparsely furnished: an opened sofa bed in the living room surrounded by various used, thrift-store items, obligatory big-screen TV on a stand against the wall, some rickety chairs circling an old cottage drop-leaf table in the kitchen.

A tattered color photograph of Kyoko was at
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