The Golden Cellar
The rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it pressed down, a heavy, gray curtain that erased the distinction between the sky and the wet asphalt of the municipal lot. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood before the rusted iron door of the condemned cellar, his badge catching the dim light of the streetlamp, its surface slick with water. He was forty-two, a man whose face had been carved by twenty...
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