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In the far corner he saw a bar with several chairs and a large mirror. The GEORGE DICKEL TENNESSEE Whiskey logo was engraved in the mirror, and in front of it was a shelf in front of which he once thought was lined with liquor bottles. These bottles had already been emptied and thrown away. I’ll know what I’m looking for when I find it. He went upstairs again and searched the other two smaller bedrooms, hoping to find a trace of the last people there, but nothing. The police should have done the same, throwing everything that seemed important to them into the evidence bag, but George also wanted to take a look at it himself. He knew he would find something. He was sure he had left something. He found her in the living room library, among the books at eye level. It was a white-bound book, covered in nylon as if it belonged to a library, and stood out amongst the others. Most of the other books were about technical issues: sailing, travel guides, an old children’s encyclopedia team. There were also novels on the shelf, but these were some of the paperback ones widely available on the market. High-tech thriller novels. Michael Crichton. Tom Clancy. George touched the spine of the book. The name of the novel and its author was written in red, thin letters. Rebecca. Its author is Daphne du Ma-urier. It was his favorite book, which he did not equate with anything else. She had given George one the year they met. When I was a freshman in college. He used to read passages from this book to George in his student dormitory on cold winter nights. George knew these passages by heart. He took the book and ran his finger along the edges of the pages. The book was opened to the sixth page. The two sentences were neatly boxed. It was not colored in pencil or underlined, only some words, sentences or paragraphs were boxed. George did not read the marked words immediately; that page of the book was not opened by chance; a postcard was inserted between the pages. The back of the postcard had yellowed over time. There was no writing. George flipped over the card and looked at the colorful painting of the Mayan ruin on the front; He was on the top of a cliff, the ocean in the background. It was a very old postcard because the ocean was too blue and the grass too green. He turned his back again. It was written about the Mayan Ruins of Tulum. Quintana Roo. Mexican.

George Foss left his office on a Friday evening at five o’clock a few minutes in the stunning Boston heat and walked straight to Jack Crov. He had spent the last three hours of his shift correcting a painter’s rewritten contract, then gazing at the misty blue sky over the city from his window. Like many Bostons hated the long New England winters, George did not like the late summer. The covered trees, the yellowed parks, and the long, damp nights that did not pass through made him miss the fresh air of autumn. A breathable air where what he’s wearing doesn’t stick to his skin, his bones don’t sting… He walked the six-block distance to the bar as slowly as possible so that his shirt would not get too wet with sweat. The narrow streets of Back Bay were full of vehicles that wanted to get rid of the sweltering atmosphere of the city as soon as possible.

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