The Golden Suspect
The splinter of oak bites into the flesh of your left thumb, a jagged shard of the Miller barn’s doorframe that you are prying loose with a crowbar, and the pain is a dull, familiar throb that matches the tremor in your fingers, a tremor that has lived in your hand for three years since the shelling at Ypres and never left. You are Elias Thorne, district inspector, and you are forty-two, and...
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