Doll Crimes
Crystal Lake Publishingma he's making eyes at meshe keeps staring at metext to make her blushher voice was full of money
His thick fingers crawling delicately through the folds.
How did I murder plum-shirt guy, and not see this one? I know his type just by looking at him. The eyes blurred behind dirty glasses, the thinning hair. Creased shirt, cracked belt. The type who washes his face but not his neck, his palms but not the backs of his hands. Fresh soap and old sweat. He’d taste musty, bitter, old. Leaving that taint in my hair, around my throat.
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