The Golden Suspect
The name is called out in the dark, a rough bark of sound that splits the silence of the study. "Thorne." You sit in the chair across from Sheriff Halloway, your hands folded in your lap, the wool of your constable’s tunic coarse against your palms. The room smells of dried lavender and old paper, the scent of a house that has kept its secrets for decades. Halloway does not look at you. He...
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