The Golden Suspect
The iron gate of St. Jude’s Asylum for the Insane was not merely a barrier; it was a mouth. It opened and closed with a hydraulic groan that vibrated in the teeth of anyone who stood too close. I stood there, my hand still slick with the blood of a patient who had tried to strangle me with a bedsheet, and I watched the gate seal shut behind me. The rain in London was not water. It was a fine,...
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