The Distant Nightmare
The air in the sterile, white-walled conference room of St. Jude’s Behavioral Institute tasted faintly of antiseptic and old copper, a metallic tang that settled on the back of Margaret Holloway’s throat as she sat rigidly in the center of the long mahogany table, her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the dark wool of her cardigan. Across from her, Dr. Elias Thorne, a man...
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