The Pale Letter
March 12. The paper on my desk is thin, almost translucent, the kind that tears if you look at it too hard. It is a prescription for morphine sulfate, forged with a precision that makes my skin prickle, the ink a pale, watery blue that matches the light in the interrogation room. I am forty-two, a senior inspector in the Capital’s elite unit, and for the last six months I have been chasing a...
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