The first thing Julian noticed about Long Island was the water. It was blue in a way that London water never was—deep and still and full of secrets, like a woman who smiled at you but you knew she was thinking about someone else.
He was nine years old and he had just died in a plane crash over the English Channel. He had been forty-seven, a war correspondent who had seen too much and written about it too honestly. The plane had been small and unreliable, the kind of aircraft that pilots flew because they were cheap and journalists were desperate. The engine had sputtered, the wings had dipped, and then the water had...
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