The Distant Wound
The air in the cell was sterile. It smelled of ozone and old dust. Marcus sat on the cold floor. His back was against the concrete wall. He did not move. His hands were bound at his wrists. The cuffs were tight. They bit into the skin. He looked at his fingers. They were pale. The nails were clean. He was a detective. He had spent twenty years looking for answers. Now he was the question. The...
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