The Golden Suspect
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain of mist that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor smear of slate and bruised purple. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the grand foyer of the St. Jude’s Civic Center, his breath hitching in his chest like a trapped bird, each inhalation a sharp, physical effort against the cold dampness that seemed to seep into the marrow of...
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