The Distant Machine
The ink on page forty-two had not dried. "Look at it, Elias. Look at the hole in the record." Mr. Vane’s voice was soft, a dry rasp like paper rubbing against a desk. He did not point. He did not need to. I looked down at the ledger, the heavy leather-bound volume that smelled of iron and old dust. The entry for the Whitmore account, dated three days prior, was gone. Not erased. The space where...
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