Still, Saffy tucked their file beneath her arm as she trudged out to the stale, empty parking lot. The girls always slipped out in moments like this, when she felt stuck or frustrated, when she had a dead end like the Lawson case. Izzy, Angela, Lila. They would slither from that folder, whispering conspiratorially. They would appear in the back seat of her unmarked Ford Explorer or behind a suspect in the interrogation room, a taunting nudge, a constant reminder. Saffy was captain, yes. But once, she’d been a girl. Every mystery was a story, and sometimes, to see the whole thing, you had to go
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