The Faded Alibi
The document lying on the desk before me is a ledger of debts, its columns of figures sharp as the frost forming on the windowpane, and I am expected to sign the final line, a confession that my brother’s murder was not a crime but a shame from which I fled in cowardice. The ink is black and viscous, smelling of iron and old paper, and the pen in my hand feels heavier than it has in thirteen...
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