The Pale Verdict
The envelope was warm. Elias Thorne held it against his chest, feeling the heat seep through the wool of his coat, a strange, living warmth that had nothing to do with the damp November air. He stood in the mud at the edge of Oakhaven, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead, watching the single light in the magistrate’s office flicker through the fog. He was thirty-four years old, and he...
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