Inside, the air smelled of stale clove cigarettes and expensive leather. Bettie sat behind a scarred mahogany desk, her signature jet-black bangs sharp enough to draw blood. She wasn't a therapist, and she certainly wasn't a saint. She was the woman people called when the "proper" channels failed—when the HOA was too aggressive, when a landlord was a ghost, or when a local bully needed a creative lesson in humility.
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