The Golden Suspect
The bread was cold. It sat on the white porcelain plate, a pale, hard thing, defying the warmth of the room. Marguerite stared at it. The crust had cracked. A spiderweb of fractures ran through the center. She did not want to eat. She did not want to live. The trial had ended. The judge’s gavel had fallen like a stone into a well. The sound echoed in her skull, a dull, rhythmic thud. She held...
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