The Faded Alibi
The paper slid across the mahogany with a sound like a dry leaf skittering over pavement. You watched it stop, the edge of the invoice curling slightly where the air conditioning vent hit it, and you knew, before the man in the grey suit even finished his sentence, that the six years of dirt under your fingernails had just become a line item in a spreadsheet you could not read. "Budgetary...
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