The Distant Affair
The rain in the village square did not wash the street clean; it only made the mud slicker and the shadows deeper. You stood under the single gas lamp, the yellow light cutting a cone through the downpour, holding the signed confession of Arthur Pendelton in your hand. It was a thin sheet of paper, damp at the edges, but the ink was dry, black, and absolute. You were Elias Thorne, a constable...
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