The Golden Suspect
The ink is still wet on the ledger, a dark smear that looks suspiciously like a bruise, and you are sitting in the high-backed chair that has been your office, your prison, and your altar for the last thirty years, watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of pale afternoon light that cuts through the heavy velvet drapes of the Ministry of Audit. You are a man of numbers, of precise and...
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