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Falling
The motel room was small with just one queen size bed and a threadbare chair looking awkwardly out of place, as if someone had just reached through the roof of this dank place and left it there. There was a distinct smell of cigarettes and desperation, of cheap, hurried sex and the comfort not of skin on skin but of plastic bottles of vodka. So this is where he had chosen to meet, she thought, as she set her suitcase down on the end of the sagging bed and sat herself down in the chair, lending...