Mr.Stamp

Previously

…She turned and walked towards the door, her exit as abrupt as her arrival. I watched her go, the neon sign casting long, dancing shadows across the room. She was right. I was walking a razor’s edge. One wrong move, and it would all come tumbling down. But for now, I was still standing. And Mr. Stamp, the lawyer, the protector, the fugitive, was ready to face whatever came next. The desert wind howled outside, a mournful song that seemed to echo the turmoil in my soul. Texas. A new beginning, or a slow, agonizing end. Only time, and a very careful hand, would tell.