The Golden Oath
The rain in Chicago did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain that turned the steel and glass of the Loop into a shimmering, distorted mirror of itself, and Elias Thorne stood in the lobby of the Department of Civic Records, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts that fogged the cold air, clutching a manila folder that felt heavier than its contents should have. He was forty-five years...
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