The Pale Mist
The ink on the letter was still wet, a dark bruise against the cream paper, when I looked up at Sergeant Miller. "You’re asking for a file to be reopened," Miller said, his voice flat and dry as the dust motes dancing in the shaft of afternoon light. "For a case closed four years ago. Do you have a warrant?" "I have the autopsy report," I said, my hand resting on the heavy leather folder on his...
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