Myra
The high, vaulted ceiling of the Town Hall seemed to trap the heat of the crowd, making the air thick with the scent of wet wool and the electric charge of a pending disaster. The room was still reeling from the mention of the print shop receipts—the paper trail that linked Jason Thorne to the recent flyers—when Bentley Howser Brooks took a slow, deliberate step toward the defense table. He didn't rush. He moved with the terrifying calm of an apex predator that knew the exits were already locked.
Bentley leaned in over the polished oak table, his voice dropping to a register that was low, melodic, and utterly cold. "But let’s be honest, Philemon," he said, his eyes fixed on Thorne’s face, never wavering. "The flyers were just a sequel. A clumsy, low-budget remake of Mr. Thorne’s fir
