The Faded Alibi
The ledger weighed four pounds, twelve ounces, a weight Elara Vance knew to the gram because she had carried it up the three flights of stairs to the Whitmore Estate’s reading room every morning for six years, the leather cover worn smooth by the friction of her palms. It was the spring of 1912, and the air in the library smelled of beeswax and the metallic tang of old ink, a scent that had...
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