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The Apartment #129

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Rick gasped. Yes, get out, that's what he had to do. He had their coats, and his wallet and pistol. But where would he go? They'd find him, his fingerprints were all over the apartment, and presumably over the dead bodies of his wife and son, too. And yet, thirty years in prison didn't seem so bad. Might even be less.
At his feet, Tracey twitched. So she wasn't dead. He shot her again.
He spoke through his tears: "This can't be real."

The unexpected grip on his arm was tight and unrelenting. Tracey pulled him out of the apartment.

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