“Murray from the dumpster.”
He huffed a laugh. “Fair. I’m Murray.”
I didn’t take his hand. “Murray from the dumpster.”
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He winced. “Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“Can I explain? And if you still tell me to get lost, I will.”
“And I found you in an alley.”
He didn’t step closer. That mattered.
“I’m an heir. Family estate. We have more money than I could ever need. My last living parent died last week. I flew in for the funeral, landed late, and decided I could walk two blocks to my hotel.”
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“And I found you in an alley.”
He nodded. “I got robbed. They took everything. I chased them, got hit, woke up in that alley.”
“So why are you here?”
“So you were ‘trash’ for a night,” I said, hating the word as it left my mouth.
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