The Faded Alibi
"Do you have the report?" The question hung in the air. It was small. It was sharp. Silas stood by the window. The glass was cold. He could feel it through his coat. He did not turn around. "Almost," he said. His voice was flat. It was a stone in water. No ripples. The man behind him shifted his weight. The leather of his chair creaked. It was a dry sound. Like a bone breaking. "Almost is not...
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