by Patricia L. Morin
The pizza was hot and the beer was cold. The score tied at halftime, the game on hold.
Jane walked in the door and put down her purse, pulled out a revolver, and screamed out a curse.
I jerked to attention, pushed the foot recliner down. She clicked back the hammer with barely a sound.
I held up my hands, locked on to her eyes. “For me,” I said, “This is quite a surprise.”
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