The Pale Tower
The rain in Chicago did not wash things clean; it only made the grime slicker, a black varnish over the steel and glass of the Loop. Elias Thorne stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in his apartment on the fourteenth floor, watching the water streak down the pane like tears that had finally run out of dignity. He was fifty-two years old, a man who had built a life on the precise...
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