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The Fortress at the Graveside

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Each step felt earned. I opened the door, and gray Ohio light spilled into the foyer, framing the man standing there like a verdict.

Marcus Hamilton.

He stepped inside with quiet gravity, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that fit him like it was carved rather than sewn. He carried white tulips in his hand, their stems damp from the rain.

“Sorry I’m continue reading …

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