The Golden Suspect
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Orphanage smelled of burnt sugar and old wool, a thick, cloying miasma that clung to the back of the throat and settled into the pores of the skin like a second, unwelcome layer of reality. We were gathered around tables that had been scrubbed white with lye until they looked bleached and dead, the wood grain erased by years of harsh labor and institutional...
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