The Distant Promise
The ledger had eleven pages, and Elias Thorne counted them twice before the weight of the paper settled in his hands, a cold, damp thing that smelled of rot and old blood. He was thirty-four years old, and he had spent the last six months sleeping in the cellar of the family townhouse, a Victorian monstrosity of black brick and fog-choked windows that stood at the end of a street where the...
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