“Anyway.” She clears her throat. She has her bags over one shoulder, and a leather purse on the other. She slides a hand into the latter and pulls out a key ring. “Let’s go in.” I raise a brow. “You got a key to this place?” “I know a guy.” “What guy?” Beckett asks curiously. “My uncle. He grew up here.” At the entrance, there’s a small gold plaque screwed onto the outer wall that reads: IN RECOGNITION OF JOHN LOGAN FOR HIS GENEROUS DONATION TO BETTER THE TOWN OF MUNSEN, MASSACHUSETTS “Your uncle John Logan,” I mumble incredulously. “I mean, not by blood, but he’s my dad’s best friend. My
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