She turned off the light and approached the window. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. “Maybe we could swing a scholarship to Boston College for you, you know, with your violin and all.
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