The Faded Alibi
The river did not sleep. It churned in the dark, a brown, muscular thing that pulled at the roots of the willows and whispered against the mud with a voice that sounded disturbingly like his own. Silas Vane stood on the bridge, the iron grating cold under his boots, watching the water below. He was a man carved from the same weathered oak as the telegraph poles that lined the road, a constable...
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