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“That’s gonna cost the old man an extra five gees.” I changed the amount in the ransom note from $10,000 to $15,000 and duct-taped it and a burner phone to the front door of the house. We hightailed it back to the cabin, got Mrs. Periwinkle’s high heels off her feet, and dragged her inside. With the air-conditioner on it was a little cooler but still sub-tropical. In addition to the main area and lavatory, there was one little room that we’d boarded up and furnished with a cot and a fan. “If you can behave yourself,” I told Mrs. Periwinkle, “you can stay in there and we won’t tie you up.” She looked inside the room and, probably not thrilled about being hog-bound in a sweltering hotbox, decided to acquiesce. We couldn’t shut the door because, with the only air-conditioner cooling the main room, she would have suffocated in the heat. It soon became apparent that buying just one window unit had been a serious error because it meant that me and Jake had to keep our masks on, which. Hollowed cheeks, gaunt frame spoke of iron control and wild helplessness, the faint taste of bile lingered at the back of her throat. Beauty was fickle, the slender frame now skeletal, ravaged by years of starvation and her skin sagged on her dejectedly, the lines that burrowed into her brow premature. Rumpled clothing, the kind that one bought in the attempt to feign wealth, in cut that nearly draped beautifully, save for the cheap cloth and subtle imperfection, clung in silent witness to the sleepless night. The nearly exquisite exterior that covered up the slowly decaying innards, cloyingly sweet perfume that nearly covered the reek of moldering life and hope, she was rotting from the inside out.She might have been different, perhaps the softly rounded mother with a slightly frazzled air of disarray to hair, clothing, life. Or the crisp sharp business woman, with the staccato click of unforgiving heels beneath prim suit as she wandered down corporate marbled floors. Who is to.
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