The Faded Alibi
The ink was fresh on the page when I opened the book. The letters were Clara’s. They always were. I sat in the sparse office of the Border Patrol station, the wind rattling the single pane of glass, and watched the words dry. It was the fourth entry in the Ghost Ledger, a slim volume of bound calfskin that had appeared in my saddlebag three days prior. It detailed a crime I had not committed,...
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