THE LAME MAN OF PENNSYLVANIA
The elevator doors opened on the forty-second floor and Patrick O'Brien stepped into a world that smelled of lemon polish and ambition. The receptionist, a woman with hair the color of corn silk and eyes that had long since stopped blinking with wonder, barely glanced up from her typewriter. She pointed to a chair in the waiting area, the kind of chair designed to make you forget what comfort...
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