The Faded Alibi
The bell in the steeple of St. Jude’s rang out, not with the clear, bronze timbre of a Sunday morning, but with a jagged, metallic shriek that tore through the fog like a wound. It was a sound that belonged to no liturgy, a discordant scream that echoed off the soot-stained brickwork of the mill district. Below, in the damp cellar of the parsonage, Elias Thorne did not look up from his work....
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