Sea Glassman's OMVELOPE

Pulling up in front of Malone Mills’ new home in Brentwood, I almost feel sorry for her. Tucked away up a long and winding canyon road, the house’s facade borders the street closely and is barrack-like in its simplicity – almost ominous. One would think that a cast off from society lived here, someone who didn’t like the world. High up and narrow windows with shutters half way tilted run along the top of the wall near the gutters. I knew Malone Mills better, though, than to judge the book of her house by its cover. Although I had only met her three times (and of course we are friends on Facebook), I already knew that nothing about Malone Mills is what it appears to be. She herself is cloaked in an air of mystery, colored by the timeless. Her pale eyes are nearly colorless with only a drop of…

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