The Golden Suspect
The rain hit the pavement. Hard. Gray. Cold. I watched it run. I did not blink. My hand held the brass button. It was warm. Too warm. The door opened. Light spilled out. Blinding. I stepped inside. The air smelled of ozone and old dust. "Mr. Ashworth." The voice was low. Soft. Like silk over stone. I looked up. He stood there. Tall. Thin. His suit was black. Perfect. Cut sharp. "Detective," he...
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