The Faded Alibi
The letter sat on the mahogany desk, its seal unbroken, a small square of red wax that looked like a dried drop of blood. You stared at it for an hour, the rain tapping against the leaded glass of the Victorian manor, a rhythmic, relentless drumming that seemed to mock the silence of the house. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a man who once moved through the world like a blade through water,...
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