The Golden Suspect
The ledger had forty-two pages. Leo counted them twice, his thumb tracing the jagged edge of the paper as if it were a bruise. In the kitchen, the light from the single bulb was yellow and thick, hanging low over the linoleum. It was 1994, and the air in the South Side apartment smelled of wet wool and stale coffee. Leo was twelve. He wanted to clear his father’s name for a stolen shipment of...
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