Micheal Lou peaked out his parlor window to squirm for the umpteenth time at the presence of Blanco Miller and three other men from town. His daughter, Riviera Miller, was the third victim of the Glasgow Creek murder.
At fifty-two, Blanco was as grizzled and bulky as an old truck, but he was held together by sinew and muscle rather than bailing twine and spit. From the corner he'd curled into, Michael noticed the deep lines that flared out from Blanco's brown-colored eyes. It scored his wind-burned cheeks, and bracketed his hard, unsmiling mouth.
Michael moved away from the window and crawled across the room. He'll call the Agent again. Heaven help him, because he'll keep calling until help came.
"Get out here, you piss of shit!" Blanco yelled from outside. Then Michael heard something break--most definitely one of his wife's porcelain flower pots.
