The Golden Suspect
The coat was wrong. Elias Thorne looked up from the workbench, his tweezers hovering over the escapement of the mantel clock. The figure standing in the doorway did not speak, but the air in the room grew heavy, thick with the smell of ozone and old dust. Elias wiped his hands on his apron, the motion stiff in his left shoulder, and looked the stranger in the eye. The man wore a coat of gold...
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