The Golden Suspect
The night train to London shuddered through the dark, a steel beast groaning against the iron rails, and Elara Vance sat rigid in the corner of the second-class compartment, her fingers digging into the fabric of her skirt as if to anchor herself to the earth. She was thirty years old, her face a map of premature lines carved by worry and cheap soap, and in the inner pocket of her coat, pressed...
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