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Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

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Sullivan did not say anything about my files,” I said.

“She spoke of cognitive fatigue,” Robert said, his voice dropping to a low, confidential tone. “Those canceled orders you mentioned at dinner, Martha. I checked the computer system from my office last night.”

My thumb automatically pressed against the rough, vertical ridge of my index nail. “And?continue reading …

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