The Golden Suspect
The document lay flat on the mahogany table, its edges yellowed and brittle, the ink faded to the color of dried blood. Elias Thorne smoothed the corner with a thumb that had spent thirty years handling parchment and vellum, his eyes tracing the looped handwriting of a man who had been dead for three years. It was a letter from Julian, dated the night before the bombing of the eastern district,...
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