The Pale Mist
The pen hovered over the contract, the nib catching the light of the desk lamp like a tiny, suspended threat. Elias watched Marcus Thorne’s hand, steady as a surgeon’s, sign the witness line with a flourish that seemed to slice the air between them. The smell of the study was thick, a heavy blend of old paper, the lavender sachet Clara had tucked into the drawer, and the metallic tang of the...
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