The Faded Alibi
The name was not spoken so much as scraped against the air by a voice that had forgotten how to be gentle. Elias. You are late. The words hung in the damp, heavy air of the Oakhaven station, clinging to the wool of Elias’s coat like wet leaves. He stood by the luggage rack, a fifty-two-year-old man whose spine had curved slightly inward over thirty years of hunching over municipal records, and...
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