The Pale Echo
The rotting lavender hits you first, a cloying, sweet putrefaction that coats the back of your throat before your eyes have even adjusted to the dim study of the Harrow estate, and you realize with a cold, technical shock that the smell is not atmospheric but forensic, a scent marker for deception that has permeated the very plaster of the walls. You are Elias Thorne, a forensic accountant of...
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