The Wistful Witness
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray static that soaked into the marrow of Arthur Penhaligon’s bones and turned the asphalt of the coastal highway into a slick, black mirror reflecting nothing but the bruised sky above. He sat in the back of the hired car, his hands clasped tightly over his knees, the joints aching with a stiffness that had nothing to do with the damp...
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