The Pale Verdict
The porcelain shard cuts your palm. It is a small, white thing, no longer than a fingernail. You hold it up to the gray light of the kitchen. The blood does not come out immediately. It gathers at the edge of the cut, dark and slow. "Did you hear that, Mrs. Galloway?" The voice comes from the hallway. It is smooth. It is the voice of Master Harrow. He is standing in the doorway, holding his hat...
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