She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood. They were loath to admit to the public that the case would be closed in a few years for sheer lack of forensic evidence. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured her. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally.
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