The Pale Garden
The house in Blackwood Hollow was not merely old; it was an accumulation of secrets, layered like sediment in the bottom of a dried-up lake. Elias Vane stood on the porch, his leather satchel heavy against his hip, watching the rain slide down the shingles in long, silver threads. He was a man who dealt in the architecture of lies, a private investigator hired to find what people preferred to...
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