The Faded Alibi
The ink is wet. You know it is wet because it smells of iron and old blood, a scent that has seeped into the pores of your hands after twenty years of handling the St. Jude’s archives. You are Elias Thorne, senior archivist, forty-two years old, and you have come here to clear your father’s name. The ledger from 1912 sits on the oak table, its spine cracked, its pages brittle as autumn leaves....
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