There, in bold type, were the words “A Deeply Moving Exhibit.” And what followed was not so much a review or critique but a comedy routine, a riff on the word “move,” as in “movement.” As in “bodily function.” Even the drained agents chuckled as they read. It was juvenile, immature. But still, quite funny. Like watching someone slip on a banana peel. And fall. Nothing subtle about it. But for some reason laughable. Isabelle Lacoste did not laugh. Unlike the others, she’d seen how this review concluded. Not with the period on the page, but with the body sprawled in the late spring garden. It
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