After what seemed a long time, Joe appeared in the doorway of the study. He found Brent tapping doggedly at the keyboard, his phone cupped against his ear. "Any luck?"
Brent waved a hand for silence. "I think I see that file you're talking about. What do I do now?"
Joe cleared a space and sat on the sofa while Brent continued tapping keys.
After a few minutes, Brent looked up. "Elise is a good graphic designer, but it's obvious she's not a programmer. I've got a techie on the line who thinks this shouldn't be too hard. I doubt she expected an experienced programmer to try to break in. She probably figured she only had to hide it from you."
"And I'm easy to fool. Is that what you're trying to say?"
Brent shook his head in annoyance. "You haven't been working on computers since you were a kid and I've got a guy on the phone that has." He resumed working. "I didn't mean it to sound insulting," he added. "What have you found out?"
Joe rubbed his temples with both hands. "She took half the joint checking yesterday afternoon. Didn't touch the joint savings. She cleaned out both of her personal accounts, though."
"How much does that come to?"
"Plenty."
"What does that mean? Is it enough to buy a condo in Mexico? Enough to buy Scotland? What do you mean by plenty?"
"None of your damn business. Just a lot, okay?"
"Whatever." Brent hunched over the keyboard, his eyes fixed on a program cycle that was nearing its end. "This just might do it." He tapped a few more keys.
"Find out anything else?"
"No. I tried calling a couple of her friends, but got nowhere."
"Did you tell them she'd disappeared?"
"Of course not. Do you think I'm stupid? I said I couldn't remember where she was going today. They bought it."
"Good. Last thing we need is people breathing down our backs." The sequence had completed and Brent grinned as Elise's mailbox opened and the screen filled with archived messages. Remembering he still had Colin on the line, he shouted into the phone, "Hey, man, I think this worked." He began scanning the subject lines.
Joe came to look over his shoulder. "A lot of those are from you."
Brent's ears flushed red. "Shouldn't come as a surprise."
"I just didn't expect to see so many of them, or so recent. I thought this thing had been over for at least a month."
"That doesn't mean we weren't still friends," Brent said weakly.
"Open one up. I'd like to see what kinds of things you were telling my wife before she left me."
Brent closed his eyes, turned off his phone and turned around. "This isn't the time for that."
"Why not? Can't stand to have your girlfriend's husband reading your kinky little love notes?"
Brent jumped up. "Fine. Read every god-damned one of them and when you're through, let me know." He stomped out the door and disappeared down the hall.
* * *
Brent stood in the stillness of the walk-in closet, surrounded by the silent whisper of Elise's dresses, jackets and sweaters. He walked down the row touching each one, staring a long time at some as though they held special meaning for him, passing over others with a quick brush of fingers on a seam. Now and then he ran a finger along a collar's edge, tenderly smoothed a crease, or rubbed delicate fabric between thumb and forefinger. He smiled at the extravagance of a white sheath dress covered in glittering crystal beads. An angora sweater made him linger for a moment, stroking its silky fur. At the sight of a shiny button, he looked more closely, as if he might find an old reflection captured inside. A blue blouse of heavy silk caught his eye and he picked up a sleeve and rubbed his cheek against it like a cat.
At a sound in the doorway he turned around. Joe's heavy frame was silhouetted by the light coming into the closet from the bedroom window. Brent could barely make out the grim downturned corners of his mouth. Embarrassed, he let go of the blouse and returned Joe's stare.
"You know a girl in St. Argent, last name Lobo?"
Brent blinked. "Sylvia?"
"Obviously you do." He stepped away from the door and headed toward the hallway. "Better come read this email I found."
* * *
"It's kind of vague," Brent said, scrolling through the text of Sylvia's message.
"What's so vague about 'mi casa es tu casa?' Sounds pretty clear to me."
"But no dates, no phone number, no address..."
"Maybe Elise deleted that one."
Brent shook his head. "Colin said this would bring up even her deleted mail. If there was anything else, it would be here."
Joe was silent for a moment. Then, "What about her email at work?"
Brent's shoulders slumped. "I should've thought of that." He tapped some keys, then began making adjustments in the different menu windows, changing the mail settings. "Maybe what Colin showed me will work on our office server. It's not really legal, but neither is anything else we're doing." A status bar appeared at the bottom of the screen. "This could take anywhere from two minutes to two hours, depending on how long it's been since the last time she logged into her work account from this computer."
"Why don't you just call Colin and have him reset her password?"
"I doubt he'd go for it, and I'd probably have to fire him if he did. The only reason he helped me hack Elise's personal email was because I told him it was my own account. Privacy laws are a bitch and it'll be a big bloody mess if anyone figures out what I'm really doing."
Joe watched the status bar silently for a moment. "Guess I'll go pack."
Brent looked up from the computer. "Pack?"
"I'm going to St. Argent."
"What for?"
"To find Sylvia Lobo. You read the email. That must be where Elise went."
"You don't even know where Sylvia lives. What are you going to do, knock on the door of every apartment in the city?"
"How many Sylvia Lobos can there be? Look her up on the internet. It'll save us time if we don't find anything in Elise's other email."
Chapter Two
"Do you have any idea why she left?" Brent asked.
"I thought you'd have the answer to that one."
"What did she take? Clothes? Cash? Did she pack a suitcase?"
"I don't know," Joe kept his eyes fixed on the road.
"Weren't there any clues at all?" Brent's voice took on a note of exasperation. "Did you check with the bank to see if she took out any money? Did you log onto her computer and check her email? Did you go through her closet?" He waved a hand in annoyance. "Did you at least call the police?"
Joe slowed as they exited the freeway and turned onto a small street off the access road. "I told you, I thought she was with you. Your office was the first place I went."
"Do we at least know how long she's been gone?"
"It could be two hours, it could be twelve. I drove to Madera three days ago to take care of some business. I talked to Elise every day. She called me last night around ten o'clock and everything seemed normal." He turned onto a winding farm road. "I got home today around noon, unloaded some things in my studio, then went in the house. That's when I found the note. I got back in the truck and went to find you. I have no idea how long she's been gone."
Brent settled back in his seat, annoyed. "She could've taken off right after she got off the phone with you last night. She could be in another country by now, for all we know."
Joe pulled into a dirt driveway that crossed a small wooden bridge. Straight ahead was the house, a low-slung ranch with a circular driveway in front and another driveway snaking toward a barn a short distance away. Joe parked in front of the house and killed the engine. "Are you saying I don't know what I'm doing?"
"Of course not. What gives you that idea?"
"The way you keep asking questions, hinting that I'm not going about this the right way. Like you would've done better."
"I don't mean anything of the kind." Brent reached for the door handle. "But your dependence on me for answers has cost us time."
Joe jumped out and walked to the door. "You don't have to tell me."
"I'm not." Brent waited while Joe fumbled with his house keys. "So what's the plan?"
"What do you mean?"
"I thought we would be splitting things up. You know, trying to at least get a general idea where to start looking."
"I'll call the bank, I guess. Maybe call some of her friends."
"Shouldn't we call the cops first, report her as a missing person?"
Joe turned on Brent with an expression of contempt. "If you had half the brains you act like you have, you'd know the cops don't consider an adult missing until they've been gone at least 24 hours. And since she obviously left of her own free will, we'd be lucky to get any help at all."
Brent turned away. "I'd forgotten you had such intimate familiarity with the police and their practices."
Joe opened his mouth to make a sarcastic retort, but thought better of it. "Why don't you check the computer. See if you can find anything there. You work on computers all day, right? Maybe you can break into her email or something."
"I'm in marketing, not IT."
"Does that mean you can't do anything useful around here? If you're not a techie, call someone who is."
Brent gave a faint nod and Joe pointed down a hallway. "The study is that way."
"You wouldn't happen to know her email password?" Brent asked.
"Of course not. We wouldn't need a techie then, would we?" Joe took off his jacket and threw it over a chair as he headed toward the kitchen, not waiting to see what Brent intended to do next.
Brent glared at his back for a long moment, then stomped down the hall, his feet making almost no sound on the thickly padded carpet.
* * *
In the hallway, Brent stopped to examine the pictures on the walls; framed photographs, most of them of Joe's famous wooden carvings of saints and angels. In some of the photos, Joe was standing proudly beside them, sometimes in a rumpled denim shirt with work tools in his hand, other times in stiff-looking formal attire, as if at an art show or dedication. Brent didn't spend much time on these. What held his attention was Elise in profile at her easel, her hair mussed and brows knitted in concentration as she worked. Other photos showed Elise at sixteen, lean and graceful in the chorus of the St. Argent junior ballet, and Elise in her twenties at a gallery show of her watercolors, cupping a glass of champagne. "You were good," Brent murmured. "Not that you ever believed me."
Annoyed, Brent looked about, then pushed open a door. He stepped into a room cluttered with bookcases and filing cabinets. An old sofa was shoved against one wall, the cushions covered in magazines, papers and photographs of Joe's woodwork. Brent picked up one of the color glossies of a startlingly lifelike goddess with Elise's features: swan-like neck, smooth, rounded cheeks, almond eyes. The pouting lips had been carved so delicately it looked as if the mahogany girl was waiting for a kiss. Brent flipped the picture over and deciphered Joe's twisted handwriting: Persephone. He set the picture aside and looked around the room, his gaze falling this time on the computer. He turned it on and sat down.
While the programs were loading, Brent dug his cell phone out of his pocket and called his office. "Christine? Brent. Hey, listen, could you put me through to Colin in Tech Support, please?" He tapped a few keys idly while he waited. "Colin? This is Brent Conner, VP of Marketing. I need a small favor..."
"I thought you'd have the answer to that one."
"What did she take? Clothes? Cash? Did she pack a suitcase?"
"I don't know," Joe kept his eyes fixed on the road.
"Weren't there any clues at all?" Brent's voice took on a note of exasperation. "Did you check with the bank to see if she took out any money? Did you log onto her computer and check her email? Did you go through her closet?" He waved a hand in annoyance. "Did you at least call the police?"
Joe slowed as they exited the freeway and turned onto a small street off the access road. "I told you, I thought she was with you. Your office was the first place I went."
"Do we at least know how long she's been gone?"
"It could be two hours, it could be twelve. I drove to Madera three days ago to take care of some business. I talked to Elise every day. She called me last night around ten o'clock and everything seemed normal." He turned onto a winding farm road. "I got home today around noon, unloaded some things in my studio, then went in the house. That's when I found the note. I got back in the truck and went to find you. I have no idea how long she's been gone."
Brent settled back in his seat, annoyed. "She could've taken off right after she got off the phone with you last night. She could be in another country by now, for all we know."
Joe pulled into a dirt driveway that crossed a small wooden bridge. Straight ahead was the house, a low-slung ranch with a circular driveway in front and another driveway snaking toward a barn a short distance away. Joe parked in front of the house and killed the engine. "Are you saying I don't know what I'm doing?"
"Of course not. What gives you that idea?"
"The way you keep asking questions, hinting that I'm not going about this the right way. Like you would've done better."
"I don't mean anything of the kind." Brent reached for the door handle. "But your dependence on me for answers has cost us time."
Joe jumped out and walked to the door. "You don't have to tell me."
"I'm not." Brent waited while Joe fumbled with his house keys. "So what's the plan?"
"What do you mean?"
"I thought we would be splitting things up. You know, trying to at least get a general idea where to start looking."
"I'll call the bank, I guess. Maybe call some of her friends."
"Shouldn't we call the cops first, report her as a missing person?"
Joe turned on Brent with an expression of contempt. "If you had half the brains you act like you have, you'd know the cops don't consider an adult missing until they've been gone at least 24 hours. And since she obviously left of her own free will, we'd be lucky to get any help at all."
Brent turned away. "I'd forgotten you had such intimate familiarity with the police and their practices."
Joe opened his mouth to make a sarcastic retort, but thought better of it. "Why don't you check the computer. See if you can find anything there. You work on computers all day, right? Maybe you can break into her email or something."
"I'm in marketing, not IT."
"Does that mean you can't do anything useful around here? If you're not a techie, call someone who is."
Brent gave a faint nod and Joe pointed down a hallway. "The study is that way."
"You wouldn't happen to know her email password?" Brent asked.
"Of course not. We wouldn't need a techie then, would we?" Joe took off his jacket and threw it over a chair as he headed toward the kitchen, not waiting to see what Brent intended to do next.
Brent glared at his back for a long moment, then stomped down the hall, his feet making almost no sound on the thickly padded carpet.
* * *
In the hallway, Brent stopped to examine the pictures on the walls; framed photographs, most of them of Joe's famous wooden carvings of saints and angels. In some of the photos, Joe was standing proudly beside them, sometimes in a rumpled denim shirt with work tools in his hand, other times in stiff-looking formal attire, as if at an art show or dedication. Brent didn't spend much time on these. What held his attention was Elise in profile at her easel, her hair mussed and brows knitted in concentration as she worked. Other photos showed Elise at sixteen, lean and graceful in the chorus of the St. Argent junior ballet, and Elise in her twenties at a gallery show of her watercolors, cupping a glass of champagne. "You were good," Brent murmured. "Not that you ever believed me."
Annoyed, Brent looked about, then pushed open a door. He stepped into a room cluttered with bookcases and filing cabinets. An old sofa was shoved against one wall, the cushions covered in magazines, papers and photographs of Joe's woodwork. Brent picked up one of the color glossies of a startlingly lifelike goddess with Elise's features: swan-like neck, smooth, rounded cheeks, almond eyes. The pouting lips had been carved so delicately it looked as if the mahogany girl was waiting for a kiss. Brent flipped the picture over and deciphered Joe's twisted handwriting: Persephone. He set the picture aside and looked around the room, his gaze falling this time on the computer. He turned it on and sat down.
While the programs were loading, Brent dug his cell phone out of his pocket and called his office. "Christine? Brent. Hey, listen, could you put me through to Colin in Tech Support, please?" He tapped a few keys idly while he waited. "Colin? This is Brent Conner, VP of Marketing. I need a small favor..."
Chapter One
Joe stepped out of the pickup and slammed the door. He looked around the parking lot, his coarse black ponytail ruffled by the wind, shoulders tense underneath his plaid flannel jacket. His hand was closed so tightly over his keys that his knuckles showed pale in contrast to the weathered tan of his skin. He glanced at the lowering gray clouds then turned his gaze to the security guard, who nodded in recognition. Joe dropped the keys in his pocket, wiped his palms on his faded jeans and headed up the walkway leading to the office building.
He kept his head down until he came to the door, then wrenched it open as if it had given offense and should be ripped from its hinges as punishment. He clomped up two flights of stairs, the sound of his heavy work boots boots breaking the serenity of the silent workplace. On the third floor he strode down the hallway, passing offices without seeing them until he came to the suite at the end of the hall: Brent Conner, Vice President of Marketing.
He shoved open the door, startling the receptionist. Before she could react, he passed her desk and went into the office beyond, slamming the door behind him with a boom that made the window rattle.
Brent looked up from the papers and marketing drafts scattered across the desk. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then appeared to think better of it and shifted his features into a blank but vaguely helpful expression. Joe took a few grim steps toward him and Brent pushed himself away from the desk.
Joe kicked a guest chair out of the way. "Where's my wife?"
* * *
"What do you mean, she's gone?" Brent picked up a pen, fumbled with it, then dropped it on the papers and folders littering the desktop. "I knew she had asked for the day off."
"I'm sure you did."
"What's that supposed to mean? Of course I know when she takes time off. I'm her boss."
"That's not all you are." Joe leaned over the desk. "Don't bullshit me. You knew she was leaving, and you know where she went."
Brent stood up. "I swear, this is the first I've heard about it, and I don't appreciate you barging in here and accusing me." He spread his arms in a gesture of innocence. "She's probably running errands or getting her nails done. You know how women are."
Joe pulled a balled-up piece of paper out of his pocket and threw it at him. "Read that, then tell me you didn't know anything about it."
Brent smoothed the paper with trembling hands. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't know."
Joe slammed his fist on the desk. "Quit lying to me."
"There's no need to make a scene."
Joe swept his arm across the desk, scattering papers, trays, pens, coffee cup and telephone onto the floor. "If you didn't want a scene, you should've thought about that before you got involved with Elise."
Brent grabbed for Joe's arm, but Joe was faster and had the more muscular build. He scrambled over the desk and shoved Brent against the wall. "Where is she? At the airport? The Greyhound station? Some cheap motel somewhere, waiting for you?"
"I swear to God, I don't know!"
"You sorry sack of shit. I'd kill you, but you aren't worth a prison sentence." He let go of Brent's sweater and threw open the office door. He mumbled an apology to the receptionist and stomped down the hall, ignoring the curious expressions of the denizens of the other offices, who had opened their doors at the commotion.
Joe had nearly reached the stairwell when he heard footsteps. He hurried down the stairs and slammed the door behind him, but it opened again almost immediately.
"Joe, wait up! I'm really sorry."
"You sure are." Joe kept his gaze focused on the walkway in front of him.
"I had no idea she would leave you."
"Keep your bullshit to yourself. Or better yet, tell it to your wife."
A pained look crossed Brent's face. "Let's not bring my wife into this."
"Of course not. We wouldn't want to do that."
"You know what I mean. She has nothing to do with this."
"Obviously."
"I want to know where Elise is as much as you do."
"I'm sure you do."
"Not like that. What was between us is over. I’m worried about her as a friend."
Joe stopped and looked him up and down, assessing his lanky build, cashmere sweater, expensive slacks and shoes, and his double-breasted wool overcoat, thrown on hastily and billowing in the wind. "Why don't you worry about your wife, okay? Stay out of my way, stay out of my life, and stay the hell out of my marriage."
Brent shook his head. "I should've known a guy like you wouldn't understand."
Joe began walking in the direction of the parking lot. "When a man fucks my wife, I understand all I need to."
Brent hurried after him. "It wasn't like that."
"That's not what she said."
"Well I don't mean we didn't...what I meant is that..."
"Shut up Conner, before I do something to you that'll land me in jail."
"I want to help you find her."
"You've already done enough."
Brent caught up with him and matched his stride. "You don't have to like me. You never did anyway, even though Elise tried to make us be friends. I don't expect you to forgive me for what happened. I don't even know if I forgive myself."
Joe grunted and shook his head.
"I've known that girl since college, and that's a lot longer than you. If anyone should know what goes on inside her head, I should. You need my help."
"I don't want it. What part of that don't you understand?" They stopped in front of the truck and he dug in his pocket for his keys.
Brent tried to make eye contact. Not getting it, he feigned unconcern. "Look for her on your own, then." He shoved his hands in his coat pockets. "I'm going to look for her too. If I locate her, I'll tell her to call you, but..." he shrugged, "I can't guarantee anything. You know how she can be."
Joe examined Brent's face, searching for clues as to the meaning of this new tactic.
"A few minutes ago you seemed pretty sure I knew where she was. If you really believe that, why would you let me out of your sight? I have connections and I can help, but I guess you aren't interested." Brent started back toward the office building. "Good luck!"
Joe watched him, a muscle in his jaw working. "Conner!"
Brent turned around.
Their eyes locked and a long moment passed. Finally Joe gestured toward his truck. "Are you coming or not?"
He kept his head down until he came to the door, then wrenched it open as if it had given offense and should be ripped from its hinges as punishment. He clomped up two flights of stairs, the sound of his heavy work boots boots breaking the serenity of the silent workplace. On the third floor he strode down the hallway, passing offices without seeing them until he came to the suite at the end of the hall: Brent Conner, Vice President of Marketing.
He shoved open the door, startling the receptionist. Before she could react, he passed her desk and went into the office beyond, slamming the door behind him with a boom that made the window rattle.
Brent looked up from the papers and marketing drafts scattered across the desk. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then appeared to think better of it and shifted his features into a blank but vaguely helpful expression. Joe took a few grim steps toward him and Brent pushed himself away from the desk.
Joe kicked a guest chair out of the way. "Where's my wife?"
* * *
"What do you mean, she's gone?" Brent picked up a pen, fumbled with it, then dropped it on the papers and folders littering the desktop. "I knew she had asked for the day off."
"I'm sure you did."
"What's that supposed to mean? Of course I know when she takes time off. I'm her boss."
"That's not all you are." Joe leaned over the desk. "Don't bullshit me. You knew she was leaving, and you know where she went."
Brent stood up. "I swear, this is the first I've heard about it, and I don't appreciate you barging in here and accusing me." He spread his arms in a gesture of innocence. "She's probably running errands or getting her nails done. You know how women are."
Joe pulled a balled-up piece of paper out of his pocket and threw it at him. "Read that, then tell me you didn't know anything about it."
Brent smoothed the paper with trembling hands. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't know."
Joe slammed his fist on the desk. "Quit lying to me."
"There's no need to make a scene."
Joe swept his arm across the desk, scattering papers, trays, pens, coffee cup and telephone onto the floor. "If you didn't want a scene, you should've thought about that before you got involved with Elise."
Brent grabbed for Joe's arm, but Joe was faster and had the more muscular build. He scrambled over the desk and shoved Brent against the wall. "Where is she? At the airport? The Greyhound station? Some cheap motel somewhere, waiting for you?"
"I swear to God, I don't know!"
"You sorry sack of shit. I'd kill you, but you aren't worth a prison sentence." He let go of Brent's sweater and threw open the office door. He mumbled an apology to the receptionist and stomped down the hall, ignoring the curious expressions of the denizens of the other offices, who had opened their doors at the commotion.
Joe had nearly reached the stairwell when he heard footsteps. He hurried down the stairs and slammed the door behind him, but it opened again almost immediately.
"Joe, wait up! I'm really sorry."
"You sure are." Joe kept his gaze focused on the walkway in front of him.
"I had no idea she would leave you."
"Keep your bullshit to yourself. Or better yet, tell it to your wife."
A pained look crossed Brent's face. "Let's not bring my wife into this."
"Of course not. We wouldn't want to do that."
"You know what I mean. She has nothing to do with this."
"Obviously."
"I want to know where Elise is as much as you do."
"I'm sure you do."
"Not like that. What was between us is over. I’m worried about her as a friend."
Joe stopped and looked him up and down, assessing his lanky build, cashmere sweater, expensive slacks and shoes, and his double-breasted wool overcoat, thrown on hastily and billowing in the wind. "Why don't you worry about your wife, okay? Stay out of my way, stay out of my life, and stay the hell out of my marriage."
Brent shook his head. "I should've known a guy like you wouldn't understand."
Joe began walking in the direction of the parking lot. "When a man fucks my wife, I understand all I need to."
Brent hurried after him. "It wasn't like that."
"That's not what she said."
"Well I don't mean we didn't...what I meant is that..."
"Shut up Conner, before I do something to you that'll land me in jail."
"I want to help you find her."
"You've already done enough."
Brent caught up with him and matched his stride. "You don't have to like me. You never did anyway, even though Elise tried to make us be friends. I don't expect you to forgive me for what happened. I don't even know if I forgive myself."
Joe grunted and shook his head.
"I've known that girl since college, and that's a lot longer than you. If anyone should know what goes on inside her head, I should. You need my help."
"I don't want it. What part of that don't you understand?" They stopped in front of the truck and he dug in his pocket for his keys.
Brent tried to make eye contact. Not getting it, he feigned unconcern. "Look for her on your own, then." He shoved his hands in his coat pockets. "I'm going to look for her too. If I locate her, I'll tell her to call you, but..." he shrugged, "I can't guarantee anything. You know how she can be."
Joe examined Brent's face, searching for clues as to the meaning of this new tactic.
"A few minutes ago you seemed pretty sure I knew where she was. If you really believe that, why would you let me out of your sight? I have connections and I can help, but I guess you aren't interested." Brent started back toward the office building. "Good luck!"
Joe watched him, a muscle in his jaw working. "Conner!"
Brent turned around.
Their eyes locked and a long moment passed. Finally Joe gestured toward his truck. "Are you coming or not?"
Author's Note
I wrote the first version of this story about twelve years ago. Initially conceived as a novelized version of a short story I had written about a dozen years prior, I was surprised when Points of Departure turned into something very different from what I had expected.
Although on the surface this is the story of two men searching for the woman they both love and utterly fail to understand, it's really about two people from very different backgrounds learning to respect each other as they pursue a common goal.
As I wrote this novel, I expected a picture of the missing woman, Elise, to become clear through Joe and Brent's reminisces. Instead, Elise seems more muddled as time goes on, ultimately becoming no more real than one of Joe's carved likenesses of her. What emerges instead is a picture of two men who have multiple reasons to despise each other but who ultimately learn to find friendship in spite of their differences.
Although on the surface this is the story of two men searching for the woman they both love and utterly fail to understand, it's really about two people from very different backgrounds learning to respect each other as they pursue a common goal.
As I wrote this novel, I expected a picture of the missing woman, Elise, to become clear through Joe and Brent's reminisces. Instead, Elise seems more muddled as time goes on, ultimately becoming no more real than one of Joe's carved likenesses of her. What emerges instead is a picture of two men who have multiple reasons to despise each other but who ultimately learn to find friendship in spite of their differences.
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