The Pale Tower
The sump pump coughed, spat a spray of brown sludge onto Elias Thorne’s boots, and died with a final, rattling shudder. The water in the flooded basement of the old county annex was black, oily, and rising by the inch, smelling of wet cardboard, rotting insulation, and the metallic tang of the old boiler pipes that groaned under the pressure of the storm outside. Elias, thirty-four and wearing...
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