The Wistful Skyline
The air conditioning died with a sound like a long, exhausted sigh, the compressor shuddering once in the ceiling tile and then falling silent, leaving the interrogation room of Blackwood Penitentiary to settle into the heavy, still heat of a mid-July afternoon that had no business existing inside a concrete box buried three blocks beneath the surface. Hugh Sherwin, forty-five years old and...
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