The Last Great Gatsby's War
The woman who walked into my office at 3:47 on a Wednesday morning looked like she had been born in the wrong century. White lab coat, hair pulled back in a severe knot, eyes the colour of a parking lot after rain. She sat down without being invited, placed a manila envelope on my desk, and said, "I need you to find out what happened to thirty-seven people." I had been sitting in my chair with...
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