The Golden Suspect
The fire starts with a smell like burnt sugar and old wool, a scent that hangs in the air of the textile mill like a ghost refusing to leave. You are standing at the window of your office, the glass fogged by the heat of the radiator, watching the smoke curl up from the dyeing floor below. It is a thin, gray ribbon, fragile as a thread, but you know what it means. You know it because you have...
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