The Faded Alibi
"Your hands are shaking, Margaret." The voice of Mr. Ashworth was low, a gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards of the factory office. He did not look up from the ledger he was balancing, his quill scratching a sharp, rhythmic line against the paper. I stood in the doorway, my knuckles white as I gripped the wooden frame. The wood bit into my skin, a dull, familiar ache that...
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