The Faded Alibi
The tremor in your left hand is a mechanical thing, a grinding of gears that have lost their oil, and you are using it to count the cracks in the plaster above your cot, a task that requires a precision your fingers no longer possess. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and the year is 1912, and you are locked in a windowless cell in the Holloway District Workhouse, a damp stone box that smells of...
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