The Ledger of Blackwood Lane
Rain hit the windows of Marcus Hale's apartment like handfuls of gravel thrown by an angry child. He sat at his desk, the yellow shade of the brass lamp pulled low, staring at the open drawer where he'd left his old police revolver. Six rounds. He'd counted them every night for three years, ever since Blackwell made his offer. The knock came just after midnight. Not the tentative rap of a...
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