The Golden Suspect
The parchment of the petition lay on the mahogany table, its edges curling slightly in the damp air of the dining room, and you watched Silas Vane’s hand hover over it, the gold nib of his fountain pen catching the light of the chandelier until it looked like a small, sharp eye. You were forty-two, a constable with a back that ached when the barometer dropped, and the weight of the paper in...
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