The Golden Suspect
The wind in the study did not howl; it whispered, a dry, paper-thin sound that scraped against the windowpanes like a fingernail on slate. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed chair, his hands resting on the leather armrests, knuckles white, eyes fixed on the blank page before him. He was fifty-two, a man carved from the same rigid stone as the courthouse where he had served for thirty years,...
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