The Golden Suspect
The ledger lay open on the oak table, its pages stiff with the weight of twenty years of coal, iron, and silence, and Elias Thorne counted the hours until the magistrate would leave, each tick of the clock a coin dropped into a tin that would never be full. The air in the town hall was thick with the smell of roasted pork and stale beer, a heavy, greasy mist that coated the back of his throat...
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