The Golden Suspect
The frost had settled into the crevices of the asphalt like a fine, gray powder, and the air in the valley smelled of wet iron and dying leaves. Elias Thorne sat in the driver’s seat of the rusted station wagon, his hands resting on the steering wheel as if they belonged to a man who had already died. He was seventy-two years old, a former structural engineer who had spent forty years...
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