The Golden Suspect
The rain had been falling for six hours, a steady, cold sheet that turned the asphalt of the precinct parking lot into a slick, black mirror, and you counted the seconds between the wipers’ slaps, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, keeping time with the ache in your left knee, a joint that had taken too many falls and too many years of standing on concrete. You were Elias Thorne, a detective...
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