The Golden Suspect
The coin in Elias Thorne’s pocket was warm. It had been warm for three days, a persistent, localized heat that burned against his thigh like a coal wrapped in silk. He sat in the anteroom of the Ministry of Internal Revenue, the air conditioning humming a low, mechanical drone that seemed to vibrate in his teeth. He was fifty-two, and in six months he would be mandatory retirement, a date that...
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