The Golden Suspect
You are the only one who understands the weight of the ink, Abbot. The paper was heavy, damp with the humidity that crept up from the red desert of iron and spinifex outside the sealed monastery walls, and Xochitl Solórzano held his pen with the white-knuckled grip of a man hauling a cart over broken ground. He had come to beg for entry to the healing garden where Elena, his wife of twelve...
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