The Golden Suspect
The brass gear weighed exactly four grams, a weight Elias Thorne knew in the bone of his thumb as he held it up to the grey light of the workshop window. He had counted the teeth three times: sixty-four, cut to a tolerance of one-thousandth of an inch. For twenty years, Elias had lived in the rhythm of the escapement, the tick-tock that regulated his life more strictly than any clock on the...
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