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datatime: 2022-12-04 07:36:08 Author:cuWGNHzO

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

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.

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

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

"Vincent. This morning."

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

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 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.

"Is this it?" Gil says.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

"You lied to them."

"Threatening you with the letter?"

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

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

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

"Is this it?" Gil says.

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.

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

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