The Pale Verdict
The glass is cold against my thumb, a shard of the case that used to hold the time, and it cuts into the skin with a dull, persistent ache that I have stopped trying to ignore. I am thirty-four years old, a Senior Inspector at Scotland Yard, and I am sitting in my cramped office on the fourth floor, staring at the wreckage of Arthur’s pocket watch, which is the only thing left that proves he...
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