The Faded Portrait
The magnifying glass felt cold against my thumb, a dead weight of glass and brass. I held it over the canvas in the east wing, the lens distorting the brushstrokes of the woman’s face until they blurred into meaningless smears. The air in the room was stale, thick with the scent of linoleum and old dust, a smell that seemed to cling to the back of my throat. I was Thomas Hale, senior inspector...
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