The Faded Shield
It was a Tuesday morning when the inspector arrived, his shoes clicking against the hardwood of the foyer with a rhythm that felt less like a walk and more like a countdown, and I stood in the hallway holding a mug of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago, watching the light from the window fall in sharp, dusty slants across the floorboards. He was a man named Thomas Bradshaw, and he had the...
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