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Hounding From Beyond the Grave

LAYTON

Waking up to an unexpected knock on your door on a Sunday was never fun. No one actually wanted to have people over on a Sunday morning. It added insult to injury that it was early, I rolled over in bed to look at my clock and groaned, it was only seven-fifteen in the fucking morning.

Another, more insistent knock sounded just as I burrowed back into my pillow and decided to let whoever was outside rot in their effort to wake me up at this unholy hour of a Sunday. The knocking turned to pounding and finally, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Irritably getting off my bed, I pulled on a pair of navy drawstring pants and yanked a college t-shirt over my head before I stalked to the door. If one didn’t want to be bothered on a Sunday morning, there was only one thing more annoying than being woken by an incessant pounding on the door. Opening it only to find your late father’s lawyer on your doorstep.

Oh, hell no. My mood darkened to the blackest depths of the deepest ocean when I saw
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