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ed, sharp protrusions, flew into the closed kitchen window with lightning speed, generously sprinkling the velvet carpet on the floor with splashes of glass. The gray, dried–up mass hit the china cabinet with a crash, so that Whitney Graham's black porcelain plates turned into a fine, coal-dark crumb. A light wave of cool, evening air slipped into the rooms. Trembling, Whitney stared tired into the impenetrable darkness of the evening street, trying to catch her eye on some landmark. She couldn't see anyone or anything.

      Then she put her ear to the thin, plasterboard wall that separated her from the kitchen. The oppressive silence reigned inside, and outside the one-story house, the west wind, the herald of an impending hurricane, howled stronger. In this part of Texas, powerful trade winds were perceived as a pattern, replacing the heat of the day with the withering cold of the night. But, so far, it was far from the thundering, airy meat grinder tearing the tiled roofs from the walls.

      – One madam, two. The hoarse, distorted, raspy voice didn't sound like someone Whitney knew. The girl slowly stood up, looking around in search of something heavy. The shortness of breath caused by the influx of hot, suffocating air was dizzying.

      "Fool," Whitney whispered, so that her lips parted only a quarter of an inch, "why did I leave it there?!

      She was talking about a Colt Cobra two thousand seventeen, a light, short-barreled revolver with a six —round drum. The gun was lying on the very top of the china cabinet where the blow fell," Whitney suggested desperately with annoyance.

      The crunch of the thin, transparent glass pressed down by the heavy sole became louder and louder. Whitney grabbed a mug from the table with the remains of half-drunk coffee, while spilling a little on the keyboard. Got ready, to quit.

      – Hey, dog shit, – a distant exclamation was heard on the street, – what are you up to?!

      The taut, ringing strings inside Whitney's heart have become much weaker. She exhaled contentedly when she saw the reflection of a lantern in the window, and heard the voice of Larry Queens, a neighbor across the house.

      "One captain, two captains," the unknown man grunted and wandered away to the light.

      The minutes dragged by as Whitney waited. Not a single sound, the street was silent. With small steps, squeezing a mug with a skull pattern in her hand, the girl went to the kitchen. The edge of the beam from the flashlight lying on the ground barely made its way into the dark room of the kitchen, but this was enough to see the consequences of an unexpected visit. Here and there were dark gray traces of mud from boots, mixed with wet sand. A thick smell of sweet – salty burning, mixed with notes of mustiness, hit the nose.

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