The Faded Masquerade
The rain lashed the brick walls of the precinct like a penitent’s fist. It was a cold, industrial drizzle that tasted of iron and old smoke. I held my badge in my left hand. The metal was warm. It had been in my pocket all night. In my right hand, I held a sprig of holly. It was green. Bright. Almost violent in its life against the grey damp of the hallway. Detective Silas Thorne stood behind...
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