The Faded Alibi
The ledger is bound in black leather, the spine cracked from the damp, and I hold it open on the table where the smell of formaldehyde has eaten through the varnish. The entry is dated October 14th, 1918, and the ink is still wet, a dark smear against the page that looks less like writing and more like a bruise. I am Dr. Elias Thorne, pathologist to the district, and I am writing this down...
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