The Golden Suspect
The dust in the Vane manor had settled into a fine, grey silt that coated the tongue like ash, a physical reminder of the years Arthur Vane had spent ignoring the rot in his own foundation. He sat in the high-backed chair by the cold fireplace, his hands trembling not from the November chill but from the hollow ache in his memory, a void where the signet ring should have been. For forty years,...
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