The Golden Suspect
The pen hovered a millimeter above the settlement agreement, the nib trembling with a fine, rhythmic vibration that matched the low-frequency hum rising from the walls of the glass-walled office. I pressed down, and the ink did not flow so much as it bled, a dark, jagged scar across the paper that looked less like a signature and more like a seizure. It was the fourth quarter, the fiscal...
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