The Golden Suspect
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the glass of the conservatory into a blurred, weeping wall of water, and I sat in the high-backed chair with the velvet worn thin at the arms, watching the droplets race down the pane in frantic, silent competition, my hands folded in my lap, my knuckles white, my breath held in the tight space of my chest where the...
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