The Faded Alibi
The envelope was thick, cream-colored, and smelled faintly of damp wool and bureaucracy. It sat on the kitchen table, a slab of oilcloth scarred by decades of hot pans and spilled tea, and I stared at the seal before breaking it. My fingers were stiff, the knuckles swollen from the cold that seeps into the bones of this old house in the Highlands. I am Elias Thorne. I was a constable, and I was...
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