The Faded Alibi
The ink in Arthur Vane’s journal was still wet when the floorboards groaned, a low, tectonic shift that rattled the teacups on the sideboard. It was the third of November, 1912, and the silence of Blackwood Manor had a weight to it, pressing against the walls of the west wing where Arthur had been confined for six weeks. He was thirty years old, his hands mapped with white scars from the...
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