The Distant Clue
It’s the red ink that gets you,” Gerald said, sliding the file across the desk. He didn’t look at me. He was adjusting his tie, a thin strip of blue silk against a collar that had been starched so hard it cracked when he moved. “You think it’s a stain. It’s not.” I took the file. It was warm. Not the room temperature of the archive, which was always a damp, stagnant chill that settled in the...
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