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The condensation on her glass is the only thing wetter than the silk shift she wore specifically to ruin my concentration.
The way your thumb hooked into the belt loop of his jeans was a better opening statement than anything I’ve ever heard in court.
Her spine had that neutral, dangerous curve of a loaded spring, and the way her husband watched me watch her made the wine in my throat turn to liquid lead.
The compartment smelled of rain-slicked wool and the kind of expensive gin that tastes like you’re licking a primary-growth pine forest.