The Distant Affair
Who owes the water? The question hung in the air of the gendarme’s office, sharp and cold as the iron bar of the desk. Vangelis Karagiannis sat behind the wood, the type case open before him, the letter 'q' missing from its slot, a gap that seemed to suck the light from the afternoon. He was forty-two, a man whose face had been carved by the same wind that stripped the glacier foreland of the...
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