“You have her blood in your pocket.” An innocent man would have been baffled by my statement. Harlo stared at me, his eyes suddenly owlish not with wisdom but with fear. “On that night,” I said, “you took with you three small squares of white felt.” One hand still on the wheel, Harlo looked away from me, through the windshield, as if willing the Pontiac to move. “After using the girl, you collected some of her virgin blood with the squares of felt.” Harlo shivered. His face flushed red, perhaps with shame. Anguish thickened my voice. “They dried stiff and dark, brittle like crackers.” His
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