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FACADES

As I examine an obscenely expensive handbag at Gucci, I hear a shotgun blast ringing in my ears. I smell smoke. I see Frank Geary’s chest exploding and watch as he falls backward down a flight of stairs. I hear my mother screaming. I don’t know where these bloody images have come from, if they are memory or dream.

“You seem distracted,” Ella says as we sit down to drink espresso in the food court. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say lightly.

I keep seeing Simon Briggs in my mind’s eye. He’s the headache I can’t shake. His face, so rough and ugly, is familiar without being recognizable. There are so many things like this that I can’t quite remember - people, events slipping through my fingers like sand. “I’m just…not sleeping much.”

“Well,” she says knowingly, “you’re probably still freaked out by that incident on the beach. That would keep

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