The Golden Suspect
Thorne, you are late for the morning shift. The voice belongs to Halloway, the Chief Archivist, and it cuts through the hum of the heating vents in the municipal basement like a blade through wet paper. You stand by the filing cabinets, your left hand tucked into the pocket of your wool coat, the leather glove you wear over it stiff with the heat radiating from your palm. It is a warmth that...
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