The Distant Crown
The chair at the head of the table was empty, but the uniform filled it. Elias Thorne stood by the buffet, a plate of cold shrimp and a glass of cheap champagne in his hands, watching the figure that was supposed to be Chief Miller. Miller had been dead for three days, buried on a Tuesday with a casket that cost more than Elias’s monthly rent, yet here he sat, his face a mask of pale, waxen...
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