The coat was wool. Gray. Heavy. It hung on the hook by the door of the interrogation room, a silent witness to the silence that had settled over the precinct. Elias Thorne did not look at it. He looked at the table. He looked at the steel. He looked at the two men across from him. One was young. The other was old. Both were tired.
"You have the right to remain silent," the young man said. His...
The wind howled through the cracks of the stone keep, a low, mournful moan that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of our bones, and I stood there, my hand trembling as it hovered over the cold, smooth leather of the shield that hung by the door, a shield that had belonged to my father and before him to his father, a lineage of steel and sinew that felt less like a heritage and more like a...
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