The Golden Suspect
The door did not open. It was not locked, strictly speaking. The latch was old wood, swollen by damp, and it refused the thumb. I pressed harder. The wood groaned. It was a small sound. A dry crack. The room beyond was dark. I stepped inside. The air tasted of iron and old dust. I am not a man of many words. I have spent my years in silence. Silence is a safe place to hide. It is a wall that...
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