The Distant Clue
The fluorescent lights hummed a low, sick note that seemed to vibrate directly against Elias Thorne’s teeth. He stood in the center of the briefing room, his hands clasped behind his back, the knuckles white, the skin stretched tight over the bone. The air was thick with the scent of industrial antiseptic and burnt coffee, a chemical cocktail that sat heavy in his lungs. He was thirty-four...
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