The Faded Alibi
The pen is a cheap thing, plastic blue, with a cap that no longer clicks shut. You hold it in your right hand, the knuckles white, the skin peeling at the cuticle from the dampness that has settled into the basement walls over the last three weeks. The ink dries slowly on the page, a sluggish black smear against the yellowed paper of the notebook. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and...
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