The Distant Clue
The marble floor of the Department of Justice atrium was cold enough to seep through the soles of Elias Thorne’s shoes, a chill that traveled up his spine and settled in the empty space where his left hand had been for six weeks. He stood before the heavy oak doors of the Director’s office, his right hand gripping the strap of his messenger bag until the leather creaked. The phantom limb was...
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