The Wistful Witness
The bell tower of St. Jude’s did not ring; it screamed. It was a sound that tore through the grey, flat morning like a jagged piece of rusted metal dragged across a piano string, a shriek that vibrated in the teeth and rattled the loose windowpanes of the narrow row houses lining the cobblestone street. Margaret Holloway stood in her study, her back to the window, her hands wrapped tightly...
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