Connicle I handed the note back to Colin that had brought young Paul to our doorstep. Mrs. Connicle’s tight, tiny, haphazardly slanted writing looked like the work of a feeble mind, scribbled with less care and attention than what I imagined Paul could have produced. It portended the frame of min...
Once Colin had been able to study Mr. Harlacheva’s slim dossier we had made a hasty exit, much to the disappointment of Miss Crouch, who was even further vexed to realize that we would not need to come back over the ensuing days, either. I tugged the brim of my hat farther down over my forehead t...
An unintended object, say a bit of metal on a suspender or a piece of jewelry, or perhaps the clavicle, humerus, or any of the numerous ribs in a chest, or even an unlucky bystander or animal who happens along the way, can all deflect the intended path of a fired bullet. Certainly the elements, s...