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datatime: 2022-12-02 20:35:12 Author:AUqbeUaZ

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.

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

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

A light in the neighboring house comes on, but Paul pays no attention. He paces up to Taft's front porch and puts his ear to the door, gently rapping.

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.

"Threatening you with the letter?"

"You lied to them."

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.

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

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

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

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

A light in the neighboring house comes on, but Paul pays no attention. He paces up to Taft's front porch and puts his ear to the door, gently rapping.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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