The Golden Suspect
The dust in the cellar of Thorne House has settled into a fine, grey powder that coats the tongue with the taste of old earth and silence. You are fifty-two years old, Elias Thorne, and your knees ache with a dull, persistent throb that mirrors the structural decay of the estate itself, a crumbling Victorian skeleton of wood and stone that your father built and you have spent the last decade...
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