The Pale Bridge
The trowel was cold, a slab of steel heavy enough to crush a walnut, and Elias Thorne held it with the white-knuckled grip of a man trying to keep his own bones from snapping. The library floor, a grid of oak planks that had supported his grandfather’s weight and his father’s and now only his own, groaned under the shifting load of the rotting ceiling above. He was forty-two, but the ache in...
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