It was a cold night, somewhere in the high twenties, so I waited in my car and jumped out anytime I saw a car driving by. After a few passersby I got ... red Jeep Cherokee to pull into the spot next to me. "Excuse me, sir. My battery died, do you have jumper cables?" I asked the guy as he got out of his car. He was tall, at least six feet. Or at least that's tall to me, I'm only five foot three. He had brown eyes, a large nose and an untrimmed brown beard. He looked like the guys from Duck. It was the centerpiece of the book she herself had typed again and again, the title changing, but the message never varying, just as Kincaid’s readers liked them. And she hadn’t seen it. Only the capturing of a moment in time in a black and white photograph told the unfettered truth. A photograph Kincaid kept on his nightstand. The audacity of it. The cruelty. What had happened to her family? How had Kincaid gotten this much control? When J. Harvey Kincaid came out of the bathroom, Ada was gone. More

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