Everyone In This Bank Is A Thief Benjamin Stevenson by Benjamin Stevenson instant download after payment.

My name’s Ernest Cunningham. Up until today, I would have said that
I’m a passable detective. Not professional, and a long way from expert, but
so far three murderers would likely attest (if the two dead ones could talk)
that I am quite the nuisance. So: passable. Factoring in the whole dying
thing knocks me down a few notches, though.
If it seems like an odd time for me to jot out a memoir, I’ll clarify that
I’m not catastrophically injured. There are no missing limbs spurting
crimson, no poisons coursing through my body, and nor am I, unlike some
other unfortunate souls in the pages to come, aflame. I’m just sitting here
on the ice-cold floor of a steel box, about the size of a fridge, with, I’ve
calculated, fifteen hours of air inside it. That is, of course, not factoring in
any oxygen wastage from my screaming and banging useless fists against
the inside of a door only I know the code to. Some of my curse words were
quite inventively lengthy and required deep breaths. Call it fourteen and a
half hours, then. Worth it