
The Long Memory
A pub on Argent Street, a bar stool, and Brock Polden can name every face in the room — the father, the brothers, the trouble they got into at fifteen. It is what he has always done best. Except now there are faces at the end of the bar he cannot place, and cases on his desk nobody from here would have done. He has been keeping a list. It used to feel like a gift. Now it feels like something he was handed to keep him from looking anywhere else.






