“Which, I figured, was exactly what she’d done. The seams in her navy slacks were crooked and the sweatshirt with Mount McKinley on the front was bunched up in the back. Her hair was disheveled and she wore no makeup.“Well?” she demanded, without so much as a howdy do, “what have you got? It better be good.”“That depends,” I replied, determined not to let her rattle me. “Have a seat.”Marsha sat. “What’s all this stuff?” she asked, waving a hand at the photo albums piled on the table.“Never mind ...those for now,” I said. “It’s this issue of the Advocate I want to show you. The year is 1967.” I turned the bound volume around so it faced her. “Read the lead article about Lynn Froland. Skip the sidebars, and go to page three.”Marsha was a quick reader. When she got to the jump, her head jerked up. “Gabe Foster? Jesus.”“Is that your brother?” I asked.Marsha’s face lost some of its usual color. “It could be.” She touched her fingers to her lips, as if to keep from blurting out.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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