The Faded Alibi
The ink stain on the 1998 land deed moved, a small black bruise that refused to stay put when Niamh Whelan looked at it from the corner of her eye. She had been at the State Palace for twenty years, long enough to know that paper did not lie, but the bureaucracy that held it did. The file was due for verification by Friday, a rigid deadline set by the Director, who viewed Niamh’s meticulousness...
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