bài xì dách tập 11

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datatime: 2022-11-30 16:25:59 Author:vbafIdkb

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.

"Damn it." Gil brings the Saab to a halt and gets out. "Paul"

"Paul" I get out of the car, trying to keep my voice at a whisper.

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

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

"That's why the police took Vincent in," he says. "I told them I saw Vincent near Dickinson when Bill was shot."

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

Slush sprays the undercarriage of the car as the suspension dances over a pothole.

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.

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.

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

"Paul" I get out of the car, trying to keep my voice at a whisper.

"Paul" I get out of the car, trying to keep my voice at a whisper.

"I'm the one who called the police too," he says.

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

Paul knocks again, then pulls a ring of keys from his pocket and cradles one into the slot. Putting a shoulder into the wood, he sweeps the door forward. Hinges squeal.

"You lied to them."

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

The wind whips through the columns of the fa?ade, licking puffs of snow from the eaves. The window next door goes black. When Paul gets no answer, he tries to turn the knob, but the lock holds fast.

Paul knocks again, then pulls a ring of keys from his pocket and cradles one into the slot. Putting a shoulder into the wood, he sweeps the door forward. Hinges squeal.

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

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

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.

"Is this it?" Gil says.

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

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