Fifty-eight
minutes before she died, Roxanne Love noticed three things. The stain on the
ceiling, her brother’s short fuse, and the tall stranger who quietly entered
and sat in the back.
The stain had
caught her eye earlier, and after that, she couldn’t stop looking at it. A
stain meant a leak and that meant a bill. Bad news all around. But worse than that,
the black splotch crouching in the far corner like a fat spider gave her a bad
case of the creeps, though she couldn’t say just why. The crazy feeling stalked
her as she served drinks to the two customers sitting at the bar of the pub she
co-owned with her sister and brothers. She couldn’t shake it.
Then the man came
through the front door.
Six and a half feet
tall, sporting the kind of muscle that took work to build, he strode in like he
was on a mission.
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