The Golden Suspect
The locket did not break on the day Arthur Penhaligon died. It broke on the Tuesday following the funeral, when the rain had ceased and the sun sat low and orange over the slate roofs of Blackwood Asylum, a place that smelled of boiled cabbage and old paper. Eleanor stood before the glass case in the curator’s office, her hand resting lightly on the cold surface. The object inside was a gold...
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