Her Name was Nia

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The Edge of the Frame

I didn’t go home.

Didn’t go to Rina’s safehouse either. I ended up at a twenty-four-hour diner three blocks from the warehouse, still smelling like gasoline and gunpowder, with blood drying on the inside of my jacket sleeve. Not mine.

The waitress asked if I wanted coffee. I nodded. She didn’t...

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