The rain in London did not wash things clean. It only made the grime slicker. It turned the cobblestones into black mirrors, reflecting the gas lamps and the wet wool of the passersby. Elias Thorne stood on the bridge, his collar turned up against the chill. He watched the river. It was a dark, heavy thing. It moved slowly. It did not stop. It never stopped.
Elias had been a detective for...
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