The Wistful Saga
The snow on the drive to Harrowgate Manor had not melted since the first week of December, packing into a hard, white crust that bit into the tires of Elias Thorne’s sedan as he navigated the final, winding switchbacks up the hill. He was forty-two years old, a man whose face had been carved by twenty years of service in the state police and a decade of solitary confinement in the mind’s own...
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