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at me.
I nodded.
He came in looking like a man who’d done arithmetic and disliked the answer.
Not remorseful.
Recalibrating.
“I heard you went to Portland,” he said.
I said nothing.
“Gary found something in a public record search,” he said. “A probate filing. Thomas Holloway.”
He paused, watching my face.
“He left you money.”
I kept my expression flat.
“That’s continue reading …
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