The Faded Alibi
The autumn air in the study smelled of dust and decay, a scent that Arthur Vane had tried to ignore for three weeks but could no longer bear, forcing him to finally open the heavy velvet coat that hung on the back of the door like a shrouded corpse. He was forty years old, an archivist whose life was defined by the precise categorization of other people’s pasts, yet he stood paralyzed before...
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