He understood now that it was a part of her inheritance. It creaked slightly. They are their mother’s sons. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. Like the flaws of an old marble. I don’t want to influence you unduly—But—They’re artistic people, Vee. There were too many kills, too many unsolved files in too many cabinets. ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. F.
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