The Golden Myth
The rain that fell on the outskirts of Chicago did not so much wash the city clean as it did reveal the grime already inherent in the pavement, a slick, oily sheen that caught the headlights of the unmarked sedan in long, trembling ribbons of amber and white. Sergeant Elias Thorne sat in the driver’s seat, his hands resting loosely on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, though his fingers,...
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