The Pale Letter
The November 4th entry begins with the tremor in your hand, a subtle vibration that you mistake at first for the chill of the room, but which is actually the aftershock of the brandy, a liquid that once tasted of oak and authority, now reduced to ash and betrayal on your tongue. You are forty-two years old, a federal agent of twenty years’ standing, and you sit at the heavy oak table of the...
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