It hardly served his interests. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. I don’t love you.
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