The Faded Alibi
The coffee in the chipped ceramic mug was cold, a bitter, stale sludge that coated the back of your throat with a taste like rust and old pennies, and you held it there, the heat long gone but the weight still pressing against your palms, while Captain Elias Thorne stood across the steel table, his tie loosened just enough to suggest a man who had been working a double shift, his eyes the color...
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