Page 485 - Anonymous
P. 485
I shove it to him one last time. I called
him from a burner, spun him some shit
about wanting to talk about money for a
funeral. As I expected, he was happy to
oblige.
He buzzes me in, and I walk up to
the expensively tiled porch. The house is
a whitewash, with dark shutters. The
dream. The lawn is well manicured. This
is the kind of home I always imagined I'd
have had growing up, complete with a dog
