The Golden Suspect
You are bleeding from the left ear when the door opens. The blood is warm and tastes of copper, a metallic tang that coats your tongue before you can swallow. You are on the floor of the precinct station, the linoleum cold and damp against your cheek, your service revolver lying three feet away, out of reach. The man standing in the doorway is not the suspect. It is Elias Thorne. He is holding...
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