The Golden Suspect
The coat hangs in the hallway closet, a dark silhouette against the pale wood of the door. It is not a beautiful coat, nor is it expensive, but it is yours, and it has carried the weight of your body through three winters in this house. The wool is matted at the elbows, the lapel frayed where you grip it when you are afraid, which is often. You stand before it, your hand hovering in the air,...
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