For reasons that I do not know, and that do not matter to this narrative, my husband, Stan, had arranged to meet a client at the Arnott Milling Company in Arnott. I was waiting in the Suburban, undoubtedly scanning my iPad, when I was startled by a guy who was motioning for me to roll down my window. Arnott seems like a pretty safe place, so I did.
“Did anyone shoot Indy?” he asked.
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