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datatime: 2022-12-01 00:26:59 Author:WPYCjHJi

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.

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

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

"Vincent. This morning."

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

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

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

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.

Slush sprays the undercarriage of the car as the suspension dances over a pothole.

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

Slush sprays the undercarriage of the car as the suspension dances over a pothole.

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

The wind hisses around the door as he opens it, muffling his words. I can see Paul mouth something to us, pointing at the house. He begins hiking toward it in the snow.

"You lied to them."

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

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.

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.

"Jesus, Paul," I say. "How do even you know the blueprint is here?"

Slush sprays the undercarriage of the car as the suspension dances over a pothole.

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.

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

"You lied to them."

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.

"Jesus, Paul," I say. "How do even you know the blueprint is here?"

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

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