The Golden Suspect
The rain did not fall so much as it settled, a fine, persistent mist that clung to the stone walls of the Athenaeum of St. Jude’s, turning the air inside into a thick, breathable substance that tasted of wet limestone and old paper. Elias Thorne stood before the great arched window, his back to the room, watching the grey water drip down the glass in long, erratic lines that blurred the view of...
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