The Faded River
Elias Thorne’s hand trembled as he reached for the cold iron railing of the fire escape, the metal slick with a substance that was not quite rain, a viscous, black sludge that smelled of ozone and old pennies, the kind of decay that seemed to seep out of the city’s bones rather than fall from the sky. He was thirty-four years old, a Sergeant in the Varkov Police Department, and he had been...
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