The Golden Suspect
The ink on the letter is not black, but a shade of violet so deep it resembles the bruise left by a thorn on a finger that has forgotten it was ever pierced, and you hold it up against the pale, sterile light of the office window where the rain has been weeping against the glass for three days without pause, a relentless, monotonous drumming that seems to synchronize with the slow, heavy...
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