The Witness in the Rain
The fog came in off the Thames like a living thing, thick and yellow and smelling of coal smoke and river mud. Clara Whitmore pulled her shawl tighter and walked faster, her boots clicking against the cobblestones of Whitechapel Road. The morgue had been cold — colder than usual, though she knew that was only her blood, thin and cold since Elizabeth's birthday three years ago. Tonight marked...
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