Chapter 84 The Ghost Of Gregg Mcmahon
- Dawn bled through the diner’s grease-streaked windows, turning the vinyl booths a sickly orange.
- The air reeked of bacon and burnt coffee, the kind of smells that clung to your clothes like guilt.
- I stared at the chipped mug in front of me, its contents cold and oily, while Patsy Cline’s voice warbled from the jukebox. *Crazy… for thinkin’ I could ever win this.*