The Faded Alibi
The rain did not fall so much as it was pressed against the glass of the patrol car, a relentless, grey curtain that blurred the neon bleed of the city into a single, indistinct smear of sorrow, and Thomas Bradshaw sat in the driver’s seat with his hands folded in his lap, his knuckles white, his jaw set in a rigid line that spoke of a man trying to hold his own shattered soul together with...
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