The Golden Suspect
The banquet hall of the Department of Anomalous Verification was a cavernous, low-ceilinged space that smelled of stale coffee, floor wax, and the faint, ozone-sharp scent of overheating servers, a sensory cocktail that Margaret Holloway had inhaled for so many years that it had ceased to be a smell and had become simply the texture of her existence, the invisible fabric against which her life...
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