The Energy of Dreams
The attic smelled of cedar and forgotten things. Tommy Okafor climbed the narrow stairs of the Whitfield townhouse on East Eighty-Sixth Street, his knees complaining, his breath shallow. Eleanor had told him to stay out of the dust. Colonel Whitfield didn't want anyone up here, she'd said, her voice carrying that particular Upper East Side cadence that turned every sentence into a verdict. But...
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