The Distant Clue
The letter lay on the oak table, the ink still wet, smelling faintly of iron and old paper. Arthur Penhaligon stared at the signature line, his hand hovering above the pen. He was forty years old, a mid-level clerk at Sterling & Associates, and for the first time in his career, he felt the tremor in his fingers was not a sign of weakness but a warning. He had found the error. A discrepancy of...
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