The Faded Alibi
The coughing fit seized me as I carried the ledger up the damp stairs of the magistrate’s office, the book clutched to my chest like a shield. My fingers, stained black with ink that refused to dry, slipped on the banister, and I had to brace myself against the wall, listening to the groan of the wood and the wet rattle in my own lungs. It was a sound I had stopped trying to hide, a mechanical...
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