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Not quiet tears. Not dignified grief. I sobbed against my father’s shirt like I was twelve years old again and had just learned the world could be cruel.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“You didn’t do this,” I said.
“I brought him close.”
I pulled back. “Dad.”
“I gave him access. I trusted him. I called him family.”
“So did I.”
His jaw tightened.
Robert Crane continue reading …
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