The train pulled into the station at Harrowgate just as the fog rolled in off the river, thick and white, swallowing the platform lamps one by one until the world was nothing but gray breath and the smell of wet wool. I stood there holding my case, feeling the weight of it settle into the bones of my hands, and watched Sergeant Miller’s car drive away into the mist without so much as a mirror...
"You have the ink on your hands again."
I looked down. My fingers were black. Not blue. Black. Like soot. Like the inside of a burnt coal. I washed them in the basin. The water ran brown. Then red. Then clear. But the smell stayed. Iron and rust.
"Clean it, Thomas," Father said. He did not look at me. He looked at the page. The page was white. It was too white. It looked like bone.
"Yes,...
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