The house smelled of rot and jasmine, the way houses smell when they've been alive too long.
Thomas Weatherby stood in the attic of Oakhaven Manor and listened to the rain. It had been raining for four days, a slow steady downpour that turned the Georgia soil to mud and the manor's wooden floors to something between solid and liquid. Thomas had been silent for three years. He could speak. He had simply chosen not to, the way a man chooses not to look at a wound that won't heal. He was...
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