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datatime: 2022-10-08 03:55:22 Author:dftjgCit

Gil doesn't even hear us. Shaken by the sight of Taft's house, he lightens pressure on the brakes, letting us roll in neutral, prepared to go back. Just as his foot begins to engage the clutch, though, Paul yanks the door handle and stumbles out onto the curb.

"You're the one who ran," I say under my breath.

"We can't do this," I say as I walk toward them, trying for some authority.

"Is this it?" Gil says.

"Damn it." Gil brings the Saab to a halt and gets out. "Paul"

"He's still at the police station," Paul says, almost to himself. "The lights are off."

"Threatening you with the letter?"

"Is this it?" Gil says.

"I'm the one who called the police too," he says.

I can hear it in his voice, the accusation sneaking in. Everything returns to the moment I pushed Taft.

Gil doesn't even hear us. Shaken by the sight of Taft's house, he lightens pressure on the brakes, letting us roll in neutral, prepared to go back. Just as his foot begins to engage the clutch, though, Paul yanks the door handle and stumbles out onto the curb.

"That's why the police took Vincent in," he says. "I told them I saw Vincent near Dickinson when Bill was shot."

I'm waiting for Gil to react, but he keeps his eyes on the road. Staring at the back of Paul's head, I have the strange sensation of looking at myself from behind, of being inside my father's car again.

"Paul" I get out of the car, trying to keep my voice at a whisper.

I'm waiting for Gil to react, but he keeps his eyes on the road. Staring at the back of Paul's head, I have the strange sensation of looking at myself from behind, of being inside my father's car again.

"Vincent. This morning."

"It's the only other place he could've hidden it."

"What do we do?" Gil says, beside him.

Paul knocks again, then pulls a ring of keys from his pocket and cradles one into the slot. Putting a shoulder into the wood, he sweeps the door forward. Hinges squeal.

But Paul is already inside, scanning the first floor. Without a word, he's deep into the house.

"Vincent. This morning."

A light in the neighboring house comes on, but Paul pays no attention. He paces up to Taft's front porch and puts his ear to the door, gently rapping.

"We can't do this," I say as I walk toward them, trying for some authority.

The houses before us are fashioned in white clapboard. At Taft's address, all windows are unlit. Just beyond them stands the tree line of the Institute woods, its canopy tinseled in white.

The wind whips through the columns of the fa?ade, licking puffs of snow from the eaves. The window next door goes black. When Paul gets no answer, he tries to turn the knob, but the lock holds fast.

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