‘Ha! It’s you, is it?’ He threw a glance at his two juniors. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. “Want to see my fangs?” She asked. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. Morality is a point of view. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. ” His arms were around her.
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