Louise George was saying, her gaunt body erect, her spine ruler straight, behind the studio microphone. “We are ready to hear your story.” “There was a hailstorm …,” Flore began, closing her eyes to avoid looking directly at Louise’s bony face. There was a hailstorm the night Max Ardin, Jr., came to Flore Voltaire’s bed. The ice balls, tiny at first, were pounding the roof of the first-floor room attached to the kitchen. It was a narrow room, the smallest one in Max Senior’s house, perhaps built for someone who was spending the night but not staying for long, as Flore and her aunt, the previous maid, had. Exhausted from a long day of cleaning and preparing dinner, Flore was flipping through a beauty magazine that she’d found lying around in the living room when the thumping on the roof grew louder. The sequined dresses, long legs and necks, and high-heeled shoes she was idly studying made her beige polyester night slip feel even flimsier, older, and uglier, but she kept flipping the pages anyway.
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