Her name was Rhea. His smile faded. She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. But I’d have done it without, though it weren’t my place. Soon the trunk, portmanteau and hat box were ready. “No, not that I know of,” Michelle replied, her still eyes not meeting Lucy’s. "I see you don't know him as well as you pretend.
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