The Pale Protocol
March 12 The paper was dry, which was wrong, because the air in the office was thick with the damp smell of the river outside and the linoleum floor was slick under my boots. I held the ledger up to the fluorescent light, the one that buzzed like a dying insect, and read the entry for the last time. It listed a debt of four hundred and twelve dollars, owed by a man named Arthur Vane, who had...
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