The Wistful Cipher
By Catherine Whitcombe
The cipher was not a mystery. It was an address.
Catherine Whitcombe knew this the moment she touched the brass key—cold, toothless, stamped with a number that meant nothing to any lock she had ever seen—and felt it hum against her palm like a tuning fork struck in another room. She was standing in the basement of her late uncle Julian's house on St....
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