The Golden Suspect
The mirror lay in pieces on the floor of the cramped flat, a constellation of jagged glass under the flickering gaslight of 1912. Elias Thorne stood alone, his hand trembling as he held the largest shard, his reflection lagging three seconds behind his movement, a ghostly delay that whispered only when he spoke a lie. He was thirty-two, a constable of ten years, and his concrete want was...
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