The Pale Verdict
The roast pheasant was carved with the precision of a surgeon’s incision, the skin crisp and golden under the chandelier’s warm, amber glow. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the mahogany table, a glass of claret in his hand, his smile fixed in place like a mask of polished wood. He was forty years old, a clerk of twenty-two years’ service, and the Senior Auditor position was the only thing...
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