The Golden Suspect
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the gravel driveway of the Harrow estate into a slick, brown river that reflected the dying light of the afternoon in long, trembling streaks. Elias Thorne stood in the doorway of his study, his hand resting on the heavy brass doorknob, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the metal that the knuckles had turned the color of old bone, a white...
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