ired me and my life was back on track.
A few months later Mitch and I met Sherry Westlake at the Lazy Eye. She was tall and busty with long black hair and green eyes. She was a knockout and Mitch fell for her right off the bat.
She was a post-graduate student and part-time instructor in Art History at Sonoma State. She moved to San Francisco from Michigan to study at the San Francisco Art Institute. She had bought an old farmhouse on an acre of land about a mile from the Sonoma State campus.
Red lights flashed in my mind when I heard this. I asked Mitch how she could afford to buy property on a part-time salary. He said her parents helped her and I let it go. I had become as paranoid as my clients.
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