The Golden Suspect
The rain hammered the slate roof of St. Jude’s, a relentless, grinding percussion that vibrated through the stone floor and into the soles of Elias Thorne’s boots. He stood in the nave, a forty-year-old master mason with hands roughened by decades of chisel and trowel, watching the water seep through a crack in the eastern wall. The parish records claimed the chapel was built in 1740, a simple...
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