Aaron Darveau, June 10, 1983
Aaron didn’t realize how cold it was in the church until he walked outside and stood under the Florida sun. He found that strange in a noir-humor sort of way; every funeral he had ever been to, it was either raining, cold, or both.
He opened up the door to Lil’ Red and suddenly his hackles jumped up. He detected a scent, and his memory brought up that haunting memory from a couple of weeks ago—wood, leather, and oiled iron. He instantly stood up a little straighter and scanned the area, straining to find the source of his angst, but could find nothing that would trigger his reaction in...
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