CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Maria Benitez? Who the hell was that? Googling the name could produce ten million hits easily. I wished I had a photographic memory for numbers. I pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot. Amber waited in her burnt-orange Prius, sipping a coffee. I pulled my convertible top up and grabbed a cup of brew before I joined her.
“Get ready,” she said, as she turned the ignition.
“Dare I ask for what?”
“Some pretty harsh realities.” Amber’s lips twisted briefly. She backed out and drove off.
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