The Golden Suspect
The ink was dry before Elias Thorne had set down the quill, a fact that unsettled him more than the cold seeping into his joints. He looked at the entry in the ledger, the number 4,092 stamped in gold leaf that seemed to pulse against the parchment. The smell of the room hit him first, a thick, metallic tang mixed with the dry rot of old paper and the faint, sweet decay of something that should...
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