The Golden Suspect
The wax seal was red, a drop of dried blood pressed into the parchment, and it sat in Silas Vane’s trembling hand with a weight that seemed to drag his fingers down toward the floor. He was forty years old, though the hollows in his cheeks made him look a decade older, and the early onset of the wasting lung disease that had claimed his brother’s life before the gallows had claimed his freedom...
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