The Golden Harbor
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of Harrow Lane into slick, reflective mirrors of the city’s endless, dimly lit windows, and in the cramped, windowless basement office of the precinct, Arthur Penhaligon sat with his back against the cold brick, his fingers tracing the same scar on the inside of his left wrist over and over again, a...
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