The Distant Temple
The silence in Oakhaven was not empty. It was full of teeth. Arthur Penhaligon did not sleep. He paced the floorboards of his cottage. They were oak. Old oak. They creaked like old men. He counted the steps. One. Two. Three. The clock on the mantel ticked. It was a heavy sound. A wooden heartbeat. It mocked him. He was a detective. Or he had been. The badge was in the drawer. The file was on...
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