The Golden Suspect
The ink bled into the grain of the leather-bound ledger, a slow, dark stain spreading across the page as I pressed the nib harder, trying to anchor the final figures of the estate audit. It was the fourteenth of November, and the air in the library had grown thick and still, the kind of heavy quiet that settles over a house when the heating fails and the wind presses against the shutters. I am...
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