The Golden Suspect
The bus groaned to a halt in the gravel drive, its air brakes hissing like a dying animal in the cold November air, and you stepped down with your bag of groceries, the plastic handle cutting into your palm, the bruised apples inside shifting with a dull, heavy thud that resonated in your own chest. The house stood before you, a sprawling Victorian silhouette against the bruised twilight sky,...
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