The Pale Letter
The ink on the page was not black, but a deep, bruised violet that seemed to pulse with a faint, internal heat. It was a single sheet of heavy cream paper, resting on the polished mahogany desk of the Deputy Chief of Police, a room that smelled of stale coffee and the ozone tang of fluorescent lights. Detective Elias Thorne held the letter with both hands, his knuckles white, his breath shallow...
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