The Distant Clue
The rain in Oakhaven did not wash the soot from the streets; it merely turned the grime into a slick, black paste that clung to the boots of the stonemasons. Elias Thorne wiped his forehead with a rag that had long since lost its whiteness, his eyes fixed on the jagged edge of the granite altar rising in the nave of St. Jude’s. He was thirty-four years old, a man who had crossed the Atlantic...
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