The Golden Suspect
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed a relentless, metallic rhythm against the tin roof of the cabin, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Margot’s bones. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool and stale woodsmoke. She sat by the hearth, her hands wrapped around a mug that had long since gone cold. Her daughter, Elise, was gone. Not dead, not yet. But...
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