The Distant Nightmare
The letter from the firm arrived on a Tuesday, crisp and white against the grey wood of my desk, listing my debts in a column that seemed to stretch longer with every re-read. I was forty-five, a private investigator who had spent the last decade chasing shadows for men who could afford to buy light. The client was Mr. Vane, an industrialist whose name was etched into the skyline of the city,...
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