The magnolia tree in front of Magnolia Hall had died thirty years ago, but the house refused to acknowledge it. It stood there anyway, a ghost of white paint and peeling porches, holding onto its name the way a drunk holds onto a promise he cannot keep.
Beau Thibodeaux pulled his car onto the gravel drive and killed the engine. The silence that followed was not empty. It was the kind of silence that Louisiana makes when the cicadas stop and the river stops and even the alligators decide to hold their breath. It was a listening silence. He had not wanted to come back. The letter from the lawyer had been explicit: Magnolia Hall was insolvent....
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