The Golden Mirror
The brass key is cold in your palm, colder than the steel of the handcuffs you left in the locker that morning. You hold it up to the fluorescent light of the evidence room, turning it over, watching the tarnish catch the glare. It is a small thing, a key to a large problem, and the problem is sitting behind the glass case three feet away, humming with a low, subsonic vibration that you feel in...
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