The Golden Suspect
Act I Vincenzo Ferraro was forty-five years old, and for the last three months, he had not slept more than four hours in a single stretch because the bedroom at the back of the house was too hot. The winter in the valley was a physical weight, a damp that seeped into the marrow, yet the air in Maria’s room held a steady, humid warmth that defied the season, a heat that smelled faintly of old...
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