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... nor did she have time to dwell on it.
She changed out of her clothes, paid extra for an express courier, and ordered povidone-iodine, but didn’t dare buy red ink.
She was betting that Cillian Grant would only interrogate her about each item, not actually dig through the trash bin to see if her blood was real.
Just as the delivery arrived, the door happened to be pushed open from the outside.
Morning sunlight had long spilled in, illuminating the foyer. The man’s t ...
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