She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. ‘We may have to,’ Gerald answered thoughtfully, staring at the window to one side. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. You see—I didn’t understand.
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