The year is 1934. The air in your office is thick with the smell of cheap gin and rain-soaked wool. A woman stands in the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the hall light. She’s wearing a midnight-blue dress and a look that says she’s seen too much.
"Detective," she says, her voice a low purr. "I'm Evelyn. Someone is trying to kill me, and I think they've already killed my husband."
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