The Faded Alibi
The brass plate on the door of 4B was tarnished, but the name on it, R. Sterling, was still legible. It was a small thing, a rectangular slab of metal, yet it held the weight of a life. Marcus stood in the hallway, his hand resting on the plate, feeling the cold bite of the metal through his glove. He had been a police officer for twenty years. He knew the smell of old carpet, the hum of a...
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