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24
Turns out, I don’t get a whole lot of sleep that night. And who can blame me? Every time I hear a noise, I’m convinced Juarez is standing over me with a machete or one of his paid goons is about to blow my head off for real. I’m up at dark thirty and upstairs in the kitchen making coffee before anyone else has crawled out of bed. In the kitchen, I find some coffee and proceed to make it. While the coffee is brewing, I make my way into the dining room and from there, what used to be a playroom. Judging by the big desk, the stacks of paper, and the laptop placed on top of it, the room now serves as Jake’s office.
I’m a writer, which means I possess an inquiring mind. Descending a couple of steps into the room, I can’t help but notice the new floor-to-ceiling bookshelves Patty has installed. The shelves are full of books and magazines, along with stacks of old editions of what else, The Gray Lady herself…The New York Times. As I approach the desk, I can’t help but notice that my novels have actually been afforded their very own shelf. My guess is Patty insisted they be included in the new library.
“Good ole, Patty,” I whisper.
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