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Змучений вовк закликав людей до колодязя ... Зазирнувши туди, люди завмерли від побаченого!

Змучений вовк закликав людей до колодязя ... Зазирнувши туди, люди завмерли від побаченого!

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The rain was relentless that afternoon, hammering the windshield of my old Subaru as I pulled into the daycare parking lot in northeast Portland. My phone buzzed in the cup holder, a sharp ping that cut through the rhythm of the wipers. I glanced at it, expecting Christopher's usual text about picking up groceries or Mia's latest obsession with strawberry yogurt. Instead, the words on the screen stopped my breath, asterisk moving to Barcelona with Claire. Transferred savings to my account. Good luck with rent, asterisk. My fingers froze on the steering wheel, the world narrowing to that glowing screen. Mia, my five-year-old, was inside, probably clutching her paint-splattered backpack, waiting for me to sign her out. I was Elena Harper, 38, a freelance illustrator who'd traded late-night design deadlines for bedtime stories, and now, apparently, the ex-wife of Christopher Caldwell, who'd just detonated our life with a single text. Our savings, $1.45, zero, zero,...

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