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Rags, Belts, and Bloodlines
My private investigator in 1937 Des Moines is the kind of woman who would spit in the governor’s eye, and face down a grand jury after killing a man with jiu-jitsu if it meant saving the life of the man she loves. She’s a cactus in human form — sharp, self‑reliant, and allergic to vulnerability. But there is one thing that takes her out at the knees: her period.