The Pale Shadows
The rain lashed against the single pane of glass, a rhythmic, staccato drumming that seemed to vibrate in the teeth of Elias Thorne. He sat in the back of the cab, his coat collar turned up against the chill that had nothing to do with the weather. In his lap, he held a leather-bound notebook, its spine cracked, its pages filled with his own cramped, urgent script. The book was not a prop; it...
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