The Distant Clue
The brass key was cold in my palm, heavy as a hammer head. It had been in my pocket for three days, ever since I left the constabulary office in Harrowgate. The dust on the floorboards of the station house was still dry, the ink on the incident report for the Miller incident still wet. I wanted to clear my name. I wanted the badge back. I wanted to prove I did not let the killer go. I walked...
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