The Wistful Letter
Thorne, you’re late, and I don’t pay for time spent standing in the rain like a statue. The voice belonged to the deputy warden, a man named Halloway whose uniform was pressed so sharp it seemed it might cut the air as he walked, and Elias Thorne felt the weight of the accusation settle into his shoulders before he even opened his mouth. He was a federal marshal, thirty-four years old, a man...
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