The Faded Alibi
The fire started in the dry brush outside the window. It was not a big fire. It was a bright, hungry thing. It ate the fence posts first. Then the eaves. Then the glass. Eleanor stood in the center of the room. She did not scream. She did not run. She held her hands at her sides. Her fingers were still. The heat pressed against her back. The air smelled of pine and sulfur. Her daughter, Clara,...
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