The Distant Journey
Thorne. The name was not a question, but a command, spoken by a woman in a dress the color of dried blood who had just poured the fourth glass of champagne for her husband’s political allies. Elias Thorne turned, his face a mask of professional courtesy that had cost him three years of sleep, and he nodded to the woman, who was not looking at him but at the empty space where her husband had...
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