The Faded Alibi
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the world outside the window of the farmhouse into a blur of mud and indistinct shapes, and Thomas Whitmore sat at the head of the long oak table, his hands resting on the wood, fingers splayed as if he were trying to anchor himself to the grain, his uniform pressed and immaculate despite the fact that he had not...
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