As they passed, Dad profiled her—her BMI, skin tone, bare shoulders; her long, piano fingers and Midwestern dialect; even her scent. He jotted these, left-handed, into his mental notebook, knowing that the data may die there, dusty, with a career’s worth of policework—faces, postures, demeanors; clues and cars and cold cases.
But about her he had a sense. Unquestionable as DNA or flimsy as a hunch—there was something to her.
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