The Wistful Mountain
The letter lay on the blotter, the ink still wet and black as a bruise, addressed in Arthur Vane’s own cramped hand to the Board of Directors. He had written it three times that night, each draft more furious than the last, detailing the embezzlement he had found in the founder’s ledger. Now, in the gray light of the archive room, he stared at the paper, his hand trembling so violently that the...
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