The Pale Echo
The train from the coast to the capital was a long, rattling thing, smelling of damp wool and stale tobacco, and Elias Thorne sat in the corner of the second-class carriage, his coat buttoned to the chin, watching the grey fields blur past the glass. He was a man who had made a career of looking for things that others had lost or hidden, a private investigator in a town where the law was often...
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