The Faded Alibi
The emerald brooch sat in the palm of the auctioneer’s hand, a cold, green eye staring back at me, its facets catching the weak, amber light of the desk lamp that hummed in the corner of the drawing room. I had driven four hours through the rain to be here, my knuckles white against the steering wheel, the wipers beating a frantic, useless rhythm against the glass as the Victorian manor of my...
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