\" Lucy scanned her memories for a face to match the name Josh Durkin. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. His energy began to slip away and she sank her teeth into his fat carotid artery below the piano wire, which had drawn blood from his neck. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast.
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