The Faded Alibi
The cell was a box of white linoleum and bad air, the kind of sterile nothing that made Elias Thorne’s head throb with a dull, persistent ache. He sat on the metal bench, his knees drawn up, staring at the scuffed surface of the table where a single sheet of paper lay, creased and stained with the ghost of a coffee ring. The paper was the second half of the ledger, the one Vance had pulled from...
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