The Golden Suspect
The wind stopped. It stopped so suddenly the air felt thick. Like wet wool. I held the gold coin. It was warm. It had been in my pocket for three days. I had stolen it from the dead man. His name was Silas. He lay in the mud by the old oak. I didn't care about his name. I cared about the coin. My father looked at me. He sat on the stone bench. His back was straight. He was a small man. He...
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