The Faded Alibi
Rain came down on Blackwood Lane like a verdict no one had asked for. Eleanor Vane sat at the kitchen table, the kind of pine table her grandmother had hauled up three flights of stairs in 1967 and never once regretted. The wood was scarred with knife marks and ring stains from cups that no longer existed. Eleanor traced one of the rings with her thumb, watching the lamplight catch the thin...
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