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Judgement on the Tribunal Express

By Brin J.Published 10 months ago 24 min read
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*Toot, toot*

The forlorn whistles rouse Christopher from his comatose sleep. He groans, cradling his head in his palm to stave off the emergence of a pounding headache. His efforts were in vain.

He swallows around a dry tongue and cotton mouth before peeling his lips apart to yawn. As he inhales, he gets a whiff of ozone with a hint of metal undertones making his nose scrunch. The scent is unfamiliar. Usually, he'd wake up to the smell of cigarette smoke.

Next, he notices the steady vibrations coming from under him along with a soft chugging sound. Strange. He's heard a lot of different noises while living in London, but this is a new one.

*Toot, toot*

Christopher's eyes finally snap open. He recognizes the sulky piping to be from a steam train. That sounded extremely close judging by the proximity of the whistles. What he finds most alarming is that his apartment isn't located near any train tracks. This propels Christopher into motion. He launches forward only for his splitting headache to remind him of its presence. He groans again, the sound coming out croaky from his parched throat.

Water. He thinks to himself and looks to his right where he usually keeps a glass during the night. When his eyes land on a maroon wall instead, he rears.


He scans the rest of the small room in a panic, grasping that he's not home. His inspection doesn't take long; the confines are barely larger than his closet. Each wall has the same maroon coloration, unblemished, making him wonder if anyone has been here before.

Without warning, he gets jostled as the room shifts like an earthquake. The combination of the tremor along with unvarying tapping brings forth a dreading suspicion. His attention snags to a velvety red curtain as it sways next to his head. In one quick movement, he yanks it open to look out a window and his stomach does a free fall.

There's snow. Everywhere. The blizzard rushes past his window in fury. Snow wasn't expected in London for at least another month, making it painfully obvious he's beyond his city. He blinks a few times as he tries to recognize his surroundings. His eyes catch on something dark in the distance, moving at a rapid rate. As it nears, his eyes widen. Trees.

The understanding hits him like a blast from a grenade. He'd know how that'd feel too since he nearly died from one three years ago. He's aboard a moving passenger locomotive but has no recollection of entraining one.

He takes a few deep breaths as he tries to calm himself. If his years of being a British stealth agent have taught him anything, the best way to figure out how he got here's by being levelheaded and heedful.

A piercing scream interrupts his logical reasoning, and he springs from the small twin bed. A smarter person would've stayed in their room. He reaches for the handle on the door and slides it open. It's programmed in him to protect, but he should've cleared the hallway before entering it. It's unlike him to make mistakes like this. Luckily, he's by himself or his recklessness could've gotten him killed.

The eerily lit hallway distracts him from his initial focus. In the wooden cabin, there are seven more doors much like his on the left side, while the right bear windows. He peers out one of them only to find the same white landscape. It looks daunting and vast; featureless to aid in learning his whereabouts. It also seems like the train won't be stopping any time soon.

Movement to his left catches his eye, and he turns to find a man emerging from the last room wearing a uniform. He stares at Christopher accusingly, then begins to shout something in a foreign language. Russian? He aims a finger at Christopher menacingly. Then, another scream resounds, breaking him from his anger. A woman in a nightgown comes barreling out of the room next to Christopher's and crashes against the windows in front of him.

She sees Christopher instantly and yelps. "Who are you? Where am I?"

Christopher straightens as he identifies her American accent.

The Russian looks between the two of them, seeming confused as well. "Yeh don't know how yeh got here either?" He asks in a thick Russian accent.

"N-no," her lower lip trembles. "I woke up in that room with no memory." She cringes and clutches at her head.

"Headache?" Christopher asks, examining her. She sniffles and nods warily. The Russian nods as well. Christopher sighs, "Looks like we were all drugged."

A door in the middle creaks open slowly, only an inch, and another woman yells something in French. Christopher understands it clearly, he took French and German in school to expand his skills, which have proven useful for his employment as a stealth agent.

"What's she saying?" The American woman asks no one in particular.

Christopher answers. "She wants to know if we kidnapped her."

The Russian sniggers. "Why would I bother kidnapping a bunch of foreigners and loading them onto a train? Where's the sense?"

"We're just as confused as you," Christopher tells the woman in French, ignoring the Russian's sarcasm.

She opens the door further, peeking her blonde head around to look at the Russian man. "The sense is that you're strangers to me. I don't know what you're capable of." She snaps in perfect English. Turning her head, her blue eyes cast on Christopher, and they both freeze in surprise. No. They're not strangers. He'll never forget those eyes. She was his nurse who helped him recover after surviving the grenade.

Christopher chooses to keep that information to himself since she hasn't come forth with it either. Maybe she doesn't recognize him? Though, her observant eyes say differently.

A loud thump comes from the room next to hers followed by a man's shouting, and she jumps. The door skates open with a bang and a shirtless angry man storms into the hall. His steps falter when he sees everyone. "What am I doing here?" The man yells in German. "And who are you people?"

After realizing no one understands him, with a groan, Christopher explains.

The German man's hands clench and unclench as his eyes dart between everyone, then he looks at the three remaining closed doors. "Have zthey not shown life?" The German man asks irritably in broken English.

It's the American woman who answers. "The only ones who have shown themselves are everyone you see here."

With a huff, he goes to the door beside his, and hammers on it, then the next.

"What're you doing?" The French nurse demands, hugging her middle to cover her light-blue sleepwear.

He swivels to her with a sneer. "Vwaking them. Someone vbrought us here. I vbet it's someone onvboard."

He walks around her and pounds on the final door, yelling at everyone to come out. Three more men exited the rooms looking alarmed and confused.

"Bloody hell." A younger man mumbles in a different English dialect. "Why'm I on a train?"

"Tis the question of the day." The Russian chuckles.

"Someone vwill confess to vbringing us here, if zey don't I'll do vwhat's necessary to retrieve ze information." The German threatens.

Christopher steps forward. "Everyone needs to calm down. First thing's first; names. Tell us who you are and the last thing you remember."

The German's eyes shoot daggers at him. "Und vwhat vwill zthat accomplish?"

Christopher gestures to the window, "We're in the bloody middle of nowhere all claiming to be in the same compromising position. No one's just going to come forward. This is strategically orchestrated so we can't leave. If we want to figure out what brought us here then we need to do it sensibly."

Everyone gives their unanimous agreement and the German scowls. "Fine. Bvut if you don't make progress vbefore nightfall I'm using mine own methods."

The American woman backs into Christopher. He places a hand on her shoulder to steady her and feels her trembling. Instinctively, Christopher places himself in front of her. With a sigh, he announces, "Well, guess I'll go first since I suggested it. I'm Christopher Taylor. The last thing I remember was being in my home office back in London." He looks down at himself and silently thanks the heavens for falling asleep in his suit from the day before. Then his eyes inadvertently went to the French nurse. Once again, she reveals nothing about knowing him, and he couldn't be more grateful. If she shared that he's a British agent, he's sure everyone would turn on him.

"I'll go next," the American woman says from behind him. "My name is Penelope Pierce. I last remember being in my aunt Marry's guest room in London. She fell ill so I'm caring for her."

Christopher's head turns slightly. That was a devised and constructed lie with an alias. He was sure of it, having heard many of them, even his own, over the past eight years. His role as an agent isn't to inform. No, he hunts. Tracking down foreign spies or any others that pose as threats to his nation since the end of the Second War. He has a knack for catching these formulated responses, but he keeps quiet for now. There's a multitude of reasons she could've omitted the truth, distrust being the most likely.

A short middle-aged man with a mustache clears his throat. "I'm Hector Romano. I moved from Italy to London with my wife and two daughters two years ago, but last night I was... Ah... I had an affair in a cheap motel with some woman I met at a bar." A confession, one filled with enough guilt to sound believable. But Christopher stayed wary, not eliminating anyone as a suspect just yet.

A grisly ginger man with a thick beard wearing a coat and jeans was next. He glanced at everyone with his arms crossed before speaking. "I'm Phillip Archambeau." His gritty voice held a French lilt. "Last thing I recall was having drinks with my soon brother-in-law. My little sister is supposed to marry him today, and I'll beat the living hell out of the person responsible for making me miss it."

The hallway of people answered with silence. Everyone feels resentful for being drugged and kidnapped, and everyone has their own lives they should be living. Christopher, too, had plans today, but he's not airing his bitterness to the group.

Christopher looked at the German, implying his cooperation. "I ahm Stephan Volker. I had vbusiness in London und also stayed in a motel." That was all the information he gave. Christopher decided not to press for more. It was a shock he even shared that much.

Heads turn to the French woman. Christopher feels his heart kick in anticipation. He hasn't seen or heard of her since she cared for him three years ago, but he's never stopped thinking of her.

His attention goes to her slender left hand and finds it bare. "My name is Gwenaëlle Dumont, people call me Gwen." Christopher's throat bobs upon finally learning her name. His nurse... His angel. "I had just moved into a small home outside of London, it's not even furnished yet. So I made do with blankets on the ground, but at least I woke up in a bed." She laughs sadly. Christopher's shocked, wondering what made her decide to leave France?

The young English man gives an awkward wave. "Name's Will Donovan. I, er, spent last night on my mum's couch. I've yet to find my own place." The flush climbing up his neck tells Christopher he's telling the truth.

"Finally," the Russian huffs in exasperation. "The name's Ivan Semenov, I'm a Russian pilot and had a pyat-hour layover in London." He holds up his hand, showing his five fingers to emphasize his meaning. "What're the chances I'd get drugged and taken? Eh?"

That IS unusual, Christopher thinks, and a highly unlikely coincidence. But he hears no lie in his words.

Christopher drags a hand down his face, feeling frustrated from not making any headway. The only thing that connects everyone is that they were all in London last night.

*Toot, toot*

Christopher's head snaps up. "The engineer." Irritation at not considering it before grates on him. "Someone has to be driving the train."

He turns, opening the door that leads to the next cable car. As he rushes through, he notices the empty cabin is a lounge with a beautifully polished mahogany bar and spotless emerald chairs. Just how new is this train? He thinks to himself. This time, Christopher doesn't allow his attention to sway. With unyielding determination, he crosses the cabin quickly and reaches the other door. He pulls it open hastily and nearly faints. "Empty." He observes aloud.

"Vwhat?" Stephan shouts.

Christopher steps back, his face drained of blood. "No one's conducting the train."

"That's impossible!" Penelope squeaks. "How did we leave the station then?"

"I'm telling you. Someone among us is responsible." Stephan barks, scanning the group menacingly.

"Not me," Ivan mutters. "I pilot planes, not trains."

Christopher goes to one of the comfortable-looking chairs and drops into it. He didn't want to resign himself so soon, but he's overcome by his headache along with their new dilemma, and can't think clearly.

"Anyone care for a drink as we figure this out?" Ivan asks, moving behind the bar.

Christopher stiffens. "I wouldn't drink anything from here. It could be drugged." As thirsty as he is, it's not worth the risk.

Ivan smirks at him. "Tell yeh what, I'll test it and if nothing happens then it's is safe, yeah?"

It was a sound idea to Christopher. Gwen takes the seat across from him, and with nothing else to do, others begin filling empty chairs as well.

"Why's everyone just sitting around?" Penelope questions, looking at the group like they're all mad. "We need to turn this train around."

"And how do you plan on doing that?" Phillip returns, stroking his beard. "Do you know anything about trains?"

"Do you?" She counters.

Everyone looks at him. "No," he answers flatly. The realness of the situation catches Christopher in its terrorizing grasp making his composure slip and anxiety weaves its way through the cracks. He reaches into the inside of his coat's pocket for his cigarette case, but finds it bare. "Shit."

He glances over to where Ivan stands behind the bar taking a swig of what looks to be water. "Are there any cigarettes?"

Ivan pauses a moment, seeming to be processing the question- or maybe the water- then begins searching the cabinets. "Here." He says, tossing Christopher a pack.

"Is there a lighter somewhere?" Christopher asks, feigning calm as he plucks out a stick.

Ivan searches a few more drawers before freezing. "No. But I think I found a clue to why we're here." Christopher studies him as his expression grows tense. At once, people rise from their seats and head towards the bar. Even Stephan stopped trying to break down the door and joins them.

Ivan removes a paper from the drawer and holds it in front of him. "To the chosen passengers aboard the Tribunal Express, you are not picked by chance. Each individual's here consequent to their involvement in a past great devastation. The only way to detrain is to come clean. Hint: uncover what connects you. You have until sunset. Use it wisely."

"Come clean?" Penelope asks with alarm. "W-what are we confessing to?"

Christopher spares her a sideways glance before answering, "It appears being in London last night isn't our only commonality."


Drawing a long inhale of his cigarette, Christopher mulls over each person's stories. They've been at it for over three hours trying to piece together what might link them. So far, his relationship with Gwen seems to be the only one, yet still, neither of them has come clean. Christopher senses she might be trying to protect him. A thought strikes him. If their association was due to the explosion that injured him, then maybe the others are connected and trying to hide it as well.

He blows out a white cloud of smoke, feeling weary, and decides to test his postulations. "Where was everyone three years ago during Paris' Peace Treaty signing?"

Just as he suspected, everyone's heads snap in his direction. His lips twitch with the shadow of a self-satisfied smirk. He keeps his eyes moving, going from one person to the next, assessing their behaviors that'll expose their ties to the event.

"Ze signing?" Stephan questions. "Or do you mean ze terrorist attack trying to prevent it?"

Christopher takes another drag before answering "Same thing."

Will laughs nervously. "Wha' made ya jump to that matter?"

Christopher suppresses the urge to look at Gwen. Others might be watching his reactions now as well. Thankfully, he's a master at keeping his emotions and thoughts guarded, never wavering a blank face. "Let's call it... intuition." Christopher replies jadedly.

"Intuition?" Penelope scoffs. "That's quite an issue to bring up from just your intuition."

Christopher regards the room nonchalantly. "The note said we all participated in a great devastation. To my knowledge, the only one since the war was the signing. Interestingly, each of our nations attended this gathering. So, I'm just following a hunch. If I'm wrong, then we'll move on. If I'm not, then we get closer to getting off this damn train."

Penelope swallows and looks at the others in the room with unease, climbing her way to the top of Christopher's suspect list.

"Zthen vwhy don't you share first since it's your hunch?" Stephan parrys in an acerbic tone.

"Alright," Christopher stubs his finished cigarette. "I served the British military and I was on orders to attend. I wasn't onsight, but a few blocks away in case I was needed." A lie but Christopher won't reveal himself. He was in the building, attentively searching for any suspicious activity. The fact he failed to catch the assailant has never stopped haunting him. Fifteen lives were unnecessarily lost that day. All could've been prevented had he just gone upstairs seconds sooner. If he did, then he'd have caught the attacker before they released their grenade.

Will hangs his head. "I was there too." Everyone, including Christopher, turns their attention to him. "I stood guard outside the room, my job was to keep anyone from getting in. But I failed, and the explosion happened right next door where all the leader's advisors and generals waited for them."

Now that he's mentioned it, Christopher does recognize him. They've never spoken, though he remembers seeing him clad in a British uniform and found it odd he had the rankings of a General even though he appeared barely twenty.

But he wasn't the only one. From what Christopher could recall, an Italian stood there as well. Christopher glances at Hector. He fiddles with his mustache as he stares out the window, his leg bouncing anxiously, giving himself away.

Hmm. Seems the explosion is what brought them all together. Now, where was everyone else during this event?

His eyes go to Penelope as she's his prime suspect thus far. She furtively glances around the room and her focus zeros on Hector's leg. Her expression changes slightly with knowing. Christopher's stomach clenches. She's an American spy, he's sure of it. Only trained spies know to find answers in reactions rather than words. This worries him. Why's an American spy on board with them? "Where were you, Penelope?" Her head jerks to Christopher in surprise. "For the treaty signing?" He clarifies.

"During the war, I was a courier of important legal documents. My skills of discretion, organization, and efficiency earned me a place in the White House. I was promoted to President Roosevelt's secretary and attended the conference to keep track of his contractual agreements since his disability hindered him."

In other words; she was a notable spy during the war, and had joined her President under the guise of his secretary to be a part of the meeting. She was likely on a mission. It was supposed to be a peaceful treaty signing. So why would a spy need to be there?

"You were in the room?" Christopher asks, but means it as a statement.

"Yes." She answers flatly holding Christopher's stare.

"Must've been terrifying," he says, lighting another cigarette. "Being in the room when the grenade hit."

She raises a brunette brow. "Almost as terrifying as waking up in my nightgown on a moving train with seven strangers."

Christopher can't help his grin. He's heard Americans were mouthy and prideful, and he's always disliked them for it. Yet Penelope's attitude amuses him.

Ivan sighs from behind the bar, gaining Christopher's attention. "I guess this really is what connects us because I was there too." The paper crinkles in his hand as he clenches it. "I proudly flew the plane that carried my nation's leader to France. Only I didn't stay with it, instead, I accompanied Stalin. There was no reason, but he insisted I come to witness the historical ally signing. I went with the other men in the room next to theirs but left to use the restroom. Had I stayed..." His words trailed off. The paper crinkles more as his grip tightens.

He doesn't need to finish. Christopher knows had he stayed he would've died too. Everyone in that room died. However, none of the Italians did. Aside from Hector, they all remained downstairs.

Christopher flicks his cigarette. "What about you Hector?"

"Huh?" His head swivels in alarm, as though he had just been caught stealing.

"Where were you?" Penelope repeats for Christopher, accusation in her tone.

He swallows a few times. "I-I was downstairs."

Stephan slams his hand on the bar table. "Bull-shite."

Hector flinches. "How would you know?"

"Bvecause I saw you." He sneers. "You zthink I vwouldn't notice vwho held ze door for all ze vworld's leaders?"

Christopher's eyes narrow on Stephan in suspicion. Why's he only now sharing his recognition of Hector?

Hector blanches. "I don't remember seeing you."

"I didn't go in ze room." Stephan answers. "I vwas instructed to stand guard around ze corner vwhere ze stairs vwere."

The cigarette pauses midway to Christopher's lips. Gwen peeks at him, noticing his hesitation. Shit. He brings it to his mouth and takes a long inhale, letting the nicotine relax him. He can't announce that he didn't see Stephan at the top of the stairs because then he'd have to expose himself. Why would anyone believe him at that point? He had already lied once. Trust right now is fragile, and given these people are dangerous military professionals, he'd rather not give them a reason to doubt him.

Beads of sweat develop on Hector's forehead. "I'm not the one you should be questioning." His attention goes to Phillip. "He left the room before the grenade went off, forcing his way inside with all the leaders and barricaded the door!" He points at Phillip. "I didn't recognize you at first, but after it became clear we were all there, I know it's you."

"Then why are you sweating?" Gwen asks skeptically.

Hector chews his bottom lip. "Because I failed keeping anyone from entering that room. Phillip got past me. I was immediately dishonorably discharged after that incident. And now we're all trapped on this train awaiting our doom."

The cabin becomes quiet. Christopher glances at Stephan, waiting for him to verify Hector's claim. He doesn't, but Christopher notices him glancing at Ivan.

Penelope squints at Phillip. "I remember you bursting into the room to grab the French President."

Phillip looks at her. "Come to think of it, I remember you too. You seemed very... nervous."

She scoffs. "Your entry was unannounced. Not to mention you locked us all in there and ushered your President away from the door. Of course, I was nervous."

"No, you were nervous before entering that room."

Their bickering irks Christopher. He knows it's a distraction from the main issue. "Why'd you enter the leader's room, Phillip?"

He glares at Christopher. "Because I felt my President was in danger. And I was right."

"But how did you know?"

Phillip glances around the room, trying to quickly find someone else to take the heat.


"Because I caught whispering on the other side of the wall before a pin was pulled." He glowers. "It was muffled but I heard praying. Asking the Lord for forgiveness for their need to avenge their older brother. There were four people in the hall. I didn't know which one was the suspect and I had little time to react anyway. The most logical response was to keep the leaders secure in that room. But I don't expect you to believe me."

Christopher remembers hearing the pin and commotion; it was why he raced upstairs. He looks between Hector and Will; both shifting nervously. One of them needs to authenticate Phillip's story, and Phillip knows this. "Did either of you hear this?"

"Yes," Hector answers acridly. "But I didn't have a chance to investigate. I was too concerned about the French man who quickly shoved his way into the room with all our leaders." Will nods crisply in agreement.

Christopher tilts his head. "Who were the other two men in the hall?"

Hector's lips press into a firm line. "The German and the Russian."

"Whoa!" Ivan shouts, holding out his hands. "I needed the washroom. Those French treats went right through me, and I confess I shat myself when the explosion hit."

Christopher looks at Stephan, glad to have a reason to come back to why he wasn't at the top of the stairs as he claimed. "And you?"

Stephan regards Ivan thoughtfully. "I saw him rush out of ze room, suspiciously vwandering ze hall, so I vwent to follow him."

"What about Gwen?" Will blurts. Christopher analyzes him. "She hasn't told us where she was."

Gwen straightens in her seat. "I'm a nurse. I was at the hospital when you lot arrived after the bombing."

The cabin becomes somber with a silence that follows her statement.

Christopher draws from his cigarette while gazing out the window. The clouds are covering the sun, but Christopher knows from the way the gloom hovers; in just a few short hours night will fall upon them.

He pinches the bridge of his nose as he tries to piece together the stories with what he can remember from that day. It's fuzzy, but his mind quickly sharpens as a memory gets triggered, puncturing him with a deadening realization. He looks at Will. "It was you."

Will blinks at Christopher in a sudden shock. "Wha? How are you going to accuse me? You weren't even there!"

"Your uniform that day," Christopher notes, not caring about ousting himself. "I found it strange a young lad wore General rankings, so the name on your uniform stood out to me. It didn't say Will... it said Thomas."

Will sputters as he looks around in surprise. "He's lying!"

Phillip rises from his chair, his eyes searing into Will. "No, he's right. You don't even act like a General."

"In fact," Stephan says, standing as well. "Nothzing about you says military. You're awkwvard compared to ze rest of us."

"And your eyes were full of hate as the world's leaders entered the room," Penelope adds. "Who would stare resentfully at the people arranging peace?"

Hector's eyes widen. "I knew you were acting strange. Especially when Phillip easily got past you."

Will's seemingly innocent expression turns murderous as he glares at Phillip. "You ruined my plans. I had to throw the grenade into the other room. The leaders deserved to pay for sending innocent people to their deaths. They should've fought their own war, not enlist good men like my older brother, Thomas, giving him no choice in the matter."

Christopher's body goes limp. The assailant had been one of his own people. He overlooked the lad because of it. He stares blankly at the cigarette in his hand as shame fills him.

"What should we do?" Penelope asks harshly.

Ivan holds up the paper. "We hand him to whoever trapped us here. He's what they want."

"Vbut vwho exactly is zthat?" Stephan snaps.

Christopher's throat tightens. He closes his eyes as understanding dawns on him. When he opens them again... he stares at Gwen. Her blue eyes held his, wordlessly confirming his speculations. His attention once again goes to her left hand- to the finger where a tan line suggests a ring used to be. "Husband?" He asks.

Her blue eyes darken. "Fiancé. We were to marry today."

Ice injects into Christopher's veins and he looks at Phillip.

Phillip smirks. "Clever man. Gwen told me you could solve this but I doubted her. Turns out, she was right. My brother- her fiance- died in that explosion. Gwen was supposed to become my sister today. I changed the details earlier."

"W-what's happening?" Penelope stammers.

"Huh." Christopher finishes his cigarette. "Gwen drugged us, and Phillip brought us here... Why a train?"

"My father is an engineer. He designed this train for this purpose. We felt trapping you all on a moving train would force you to comply with quicker results."

Christopher glances between the two, uncertain of everyone's fate. "What now?"

Gwen answers. "Once we station you're free to go. All we want is justice."

"And Will?" Hector questions nervously.

Gwen slowly rises and moves to stand in front of Will. Before anyone can react, she pulls out a small pistol and shoots him in the head. The passengers scream and duck away, fearful to be next on her hit list.

As she turns to face Christopher, his soul hallows. He no longer saw the angel who once cared for him. Replacing her was a scorned woman, derailed by her violent need for revenge.

Short Story

About the Creator

Brin J.

I never believed the sky is the limit, therefore my passions are expansive. My interest in writing stemmed from poetry but my heart lead me to Sci-Fi Fantasy. Consequently, my stories are plot-driven with splashes of evocative elements.

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Comments (3)

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  • Veronica Coldiron10 months ago

    Talk about a train ride to suspense! This was GREAT! I love a good mystery and this checked all the boxes. GREAT piece!!

  • Wow, this story kept me captivated right from the beginning. Fantastic story! I loved it!

  • Cassandra McElroen10 months ago

    That was an excellent "who-done-it" mystery! Beautiful descriptive language. The character development for Christopher and historical background was impressive. Very well done!

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