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datatime: 2022-12-04 20:48:13 Author:FAGVGcRC

"It's the only other place he could've hidden it."

The houses before us are fashioned in white clapboard. At Taft's address, all windows are unlit. Just beyond them stands the tree line of the Institute woods, its canopy tinseled in white.

I'm waiting for Gil to react, but he keeps his eyes on the road. Staring at the back of Paul's head, I have the strange sensation of looking at myself from behind, of being inside my father's car again.

I can hear it in his voice, the accusation sneaking in. Everything returns to the moment I pushed Taft.

"Vincent. This morning."

"Threatening you with the letter?"

"We can't do this," I say as I walk toward them, trying for some authority.

Gil doesn't even hear us. Shaken by the sight of Taft's house, he lightens pressure on the brakes, letting us roll in neutral, prepared to go back. Just as his foot begins to engage the clutch, though, Paul yanks the door handle and stumbles out onto the curb.

"You lied to them."

The houses before us are fashioned in white clapboard. At Taft's address, all windows are unlit. Just beyond them stands the tree line of the Institute woods, its canopy tinseled in white.

"He's still at the police station," Paul says, almost to himself. "The lights are off."

But Paul is already inside, scanning the first floor. Without a word, he's deep into the house.

"Is this it?" Gil says.

"Is this it?" Gil says.

"It's the only other place he could've hidden it."

"He knew he had nothing on me. So he started in on your dad."

"What do we do?" Gil says, beside him.

"We can't do this," I say as I walk toward them, trying for some authority.

"Jesus, Paul," I say. "How do even you know the blueprint is here?"

"Threatening you with the letter?"

"You're the one who ran," I say under my breath.

The wind hisses around the door as he opens it, muffling his words. I can see Paul mouth something to us, pointing at the house. He begins hiking toward it in the snow.

Gil doesn't even hear us. Shaken by the sight of Taft's house, he lightens pressure on the brakes, letting us roll in neutral, prepared to go back. Just as his foot begins to engage the clutch, though, Paul yanks the door handle and stumbles out onto the curb.

But Paul is already inside, scanning the first floor. Without a word, he's deep into the house.

"We can't do this," I say as I walk toward them, trying for some authority.

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