The Pale Verdict
The bone was cold. It had been cold for three days, ever since the lab delivered it from the ice chest. Margaret held it in her gloved hand, turning it over. It was a metacarpal. Small. Delicate. The kind of bone that broke easily when the grip was wrong, or when the force was too much. She looked at the fracture line. It was jagged. A clean snap. Not a stress fracture. A violent end. She sat...
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