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The Iron Spire## [English Version] The fog came down over London like a shroud, thick and yellow with coal smoke, and Arthur Blackwell pulled his coat tighter as he walked. It had been three weeks since he left the City. Three weeks of hiding in lodging houses and counting coins, of watching every man in a dark suit and wondering if he was a detective. The magistrates had issued a warrant for his arrest on...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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Magnolia House was dying, and Evangeline Beaumont was its undertaker, living resident, and unwilling accomplice. She knew this because Mama Rose said so every morning at breakfast, while peeling orang"The Thibodeaux boy is coming by this afternoon," Mama Rose announced on a Tuesday in October, slicing the orange into perfect sections and arranging them on a porcelain plate that had been made in Chelsea and bought at an auction in New Orleans for more than the house had been worth at its peak. "He's twenty-two, unmarried, and his father's plantation went under last spring. That means he's...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Chronicle of the Street RatI first met Tommy O'Brien in the winter of 1893, on a street corner in Brooklyn where the wind came off the river like a blade and the poor wrapped themselves in rags and called it warmth. He was twenty-two years old, thin as a rail but built like a man who had spent his life lifting things heavier than he should have, and he had the kind of face that people forgot as soon as they looked away,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Messenger of Lakeview CemeteryAct I The wind off Lake Michigan did not care about the dead. It tore through the iron gates of Lakeview Cemetery every morning at six, rattling the brass nameplates on headstones, sweeping fallen leaves across the gravel paths, and finding its way beneath the collars of the few men foolish enough to walk there before noon. Thomas Calloway knew the wind as well as he knew his own name. He had...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Cat's Price## Act I: The Descent (20%) The rain fell on Chicago like a curse, turning the streets of the slums into rivers of mud and despair. Tommy Kelly pulled his collar tighter and quickened his pace. The docks had closed early again—no work, no pay, no food. "Tommy!" his mother's voice came from the basement window. "Come home, boy!" He descended the creaky stairs into their basement apartment. Rose...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Man Who Forgot He Was DeadACT I The morgue smelled like bleach and old pennies. Daniel Cross knelt on the concrete floor between the cold storage drawers, his forehead pressed against the stainless steel lip of drawer fourteen. His hands rested on his knees. His shoulders trembled. Detective Maria Santos stood in the doorway and watched him for a full minute before anyone could speak. She had been called from a parking...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Year the Silence Finally BrokeThe silence broke in 1975, which was twenty-eight years after Jack Moran poured his rye down the sink, and twelve years after he died of liver failure in a veterans' hospital in San Diego, and fifty-two years after Richard DuBois sat at a dinner table in New Orleans and pronounced a death sentence in a calm and reasonable voice. The person who broke it was named Grace Callahan, and she was...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Soldier's LetterThe apartment was small. That was the first thing you noticed about it. Small and cold and smelling faintly of boiled cabbage and damp drywall, the way all apartments in this building smelled regardless of who lived there or how long they had lived there. Jake Donovan noticed it every morning when he woke up. Not because it was new or surprising. He had lived here for two years. But he noticed...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Kneelers of Wall StreetACT I The silence in the basement was what unsettled Vincent Russo first. Not the incense, not the rows of strangers kneeling on wooden boards, not the dim amber lighting that turned everyone's faces into something between a Rembrandt and a crime scene. It was the silence. The kind of silence that had weight and texture, the kind that pressed against your eardrums until you could hear your own...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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