The Golden Scar
"Your collar is crooked," Elias said, his voice a dry rasp that seemed to scrape against the humid air of the observation cell. He did not look up from the ledger he was balancing on his knee. His fingers, stained with the particular blue-black ink of the Correctional Bureau, moved with a mechanical precision that belied the trembling of his wrists. Margaret adjusted the gold chain around her...
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