The Wistful Cipher
The rain had fallen for three days, turning the gravel of Blackwood Manor’s courtyard into a slurry of mud and broken leaves that sucked at the boots of Sergeant Elias Thorne. He stood with his service revolver drawn, the weight of the.38 Special familiar and cold against his palm, facing Arthur Blackwood who leaned against the stone pillar of the portico with the weary resignation of a man who...
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