The Golden Myth
The fog did not roll in so much as it rose, a thick, wet wool that strangled the valley floor and swallowed the road leading to St. Jude’s. Elias Thorne, forty-five years old and possessed of a tenure that hung by a thread of academic rigor, stepped out of the hired car with the reluctance of a man entering a hospital ward. He carried a leather satchel heavy with notebooks and carbon paper, his...
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