Blood_on_the_Fiddle_sample_202605200900
The fiddle was in the back of the barn, under a pile of rusted plow blades and a tarp that had turned gray from forty years of rain. Caleb found it the way he found most things in his life: by accident, while trying to sell something else. He had come to the barn to retrieve his grandfather's old whiskey bottles—there was a collector in New Orleans who paid well for labeled glass—and instead he...
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