The Golden Suspect
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the world outside the windows of the estate into a smear of mud and wet leaves. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool, beeswax, and the faint, sweet rot of overripe apples left too long on the counter. Elias Thorne stood by the hearth, his hands resting on the back of a chair, watching the fire die...
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