The Pale Verdict
The snow fell in thick, silent sheets over the sprawling grounds of St. Jude’s, a modernist fortress of glass and steel perched on the cliffs above the Atlantic. Inside the executive conference room, the air was recycled and cold, smelling faintly of ozone and stale coffee. Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the mahogany table, his hands folded neatly over a leather portfolio. He was a man of...
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