The Distant Clue
October 14, 1893. The harvest festival at Millhaven was a cacophony of fiddle music and the smell of roasting pork, a sensory assault that did little to mask the cold knot of dread tightening in my stomach. I stood at the edge of the square, my hand resting on the hilt of my service revolver, watching Mayor Whitmore laugh too loudly with the councilmen, his eyes darting to the crowd with the...
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