The Faded Paradox
The alibi was perfect. That was the problem. Isandro Arellano stood in the foyer of the Arellano estate, his boots squelching in the thaw that had turned the Rio delta mud into a slurry of rot and salt. He was thirty-two, a junior detective whose hands still smelled of the nail polish remover from his sister’s salon, a trade that paid less than the rent on his lease. The house was cold, a damp...
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