The Distant Temple
The frost on the windowpane had not yet thawed when Arthur Pendelton began to pick at the scab on his thumb. It was a small, dry flake, no bigger than a grain of sand, but it felt like a secret. He was a man of fifty-three, though the mirror in the hallway suggested he was seventy, a fact he refused to acknowledge with the same stubbornness he applied to his case files. The house, a sprawling...
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