The Faded Alibi
The wind in the scrubland did not blow; it scoured, stripping the color from the sagebrush and the dust from the air until the horizon was a thin, jagged line where the earth surrendered to a sky the color of old bone. Elias Thorne stood alone in the center of this desolation, his boots sinking into the dry, cracked soil, the weight of his fifty-two years pressing down on a spine that had long...
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