Ripley slammed into his house, trying to hold back the guck that had been rising into his throat on the way home. The more he thought about the grizzly crime scene, the worse he felt. Throwing his keys on the side table by the door, he stormed to the bathroom and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. He tried to throw up, but all he got was dry heaving; stinging, foul tasting bile. Grabbing a glass by the sink, he rinsed out his mouth three times, then stared at his reflection in the mirror. “What kind of fuckin’, sick bastard could do that?” he growled at his image.
Ripley clasped the sides of the sink and willed his body to settle down. He’d seen...
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