The Faded Alibi
The pocket watch was warm in my palm, its brass case slick with the perspiration of my grip, and it hummed against my thumb with a frequency that I had learned to dread over the last three weeks. I sat at the mahogany desk in my office, the wood grain worn smooth by twenty years of my own friction, and stared at the file before me, which contained only a single sheet of paper bearing the name...
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