She stared at him. It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool. She had been so young then. Mentally but not physically competent. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. “If I cut her neck, you’ll never get the stains out of your fancy car. Missy is into the witchcraft stuff, Wicca, nothing bad or anything. Once before—but that had been different.
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