The Golden Suspect
The first thing Elias Thorne noticed, before the fluorescent lights hummed their flat, electric note, was the count of the seconds in his own pulse. One, two, three, four; the rhythm was steady, a metronome set to a tempo that matched the slow, grinding rotation of the earth, or so he told himself, though the number felt less like a heartbeat and more like a countdown. He sat in the center of...
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