The Devil's Island Ledger
The rain in Chicago doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker. Thomas Wade stood on the pier and watched the water lap against the pilings of Devils Island. The island was a smudge of grey against a greyer sky, connected to the mainland by a bridge that looked too narrow for the weight of whatever secrets it carried. He adjusted the brim of his hat and checked the pistol in his...
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