CHAPTER THIRTY
Chris Gonzales was waiting for me at the side of a rutted dirt road, in a heavily wooded section of the property. As I pulled up, he unfolded his lanky frame, clad in jeans and a faded yellow T-shirt, from the driver’s side of his old Plymouth and greeted me with a terse smile.
“The wetlands are near a stream at the bottom of this hill,” he…
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