The Faded River
The fluorescent tube above the desk flickered with a sickly, intermittent buzz, casting a pale, jaundiced light over the stacks of manila folders that Elias Thorne had arranged with the precision of a surgeon. He was fifty-two, though the gray at his temples and the tremor in his hands suggested a man who had aged a decade in the last five years. For the past three hours, he had been...
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