The Golden Mirror
Could a man die by looking at his own face? Grigori Belov asked the question aloud, his voice swallowed by the rain-slicked alley where the suspect lay pinned beneath his boots, the bronze door-pivot of the precinct’s back entrance hanging loose on its chain, clattering a dry, metallic rhythm against the wet stone. Belov was forty-five, his coat soaked through to the skin, and he wanted only to...
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