John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over. He sat before a desk littered all over with papers and official looking documents. He chuckled. Lucy felt her heart splinter in her breast. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. Still, Katy Pfister is a grumpy whore who would open her legs for half the football team if given a chance. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. He does not look the criminal.
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