The Distant Affair
The silver cufflink sat in my palm, cold as river water. It was a simple thing, a disc of polished metal with a single, deep scratch running across its face, a mark Miller had made the night he died, or perhaps the night before, when he was still alive and arguing with me about the weight of things. I held it up to the gray light of the constabulary office, turning it over, feeling the way the...
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