Daniel Voss did not move when I cracked the front door three inches and kept the chain fastened.
Up close, he looked less like the sort of man who came to threaten an old woman and more like the sort who had spent too many years carrying bad news without ever learning how to put it down. His dark suit was expensive but creased at the elbows, and rain had left little silver beads along the shoulders. The thick envelope in his left hand had my name written across it in faded blue ink.
Not printed.
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