The letter arrived on a Tuesday, written on paper so thick it felt like skin.
Silas Beaumont read it by the light of a kerosene lamp in his tiny rooming house: "Your grandfather has passed. Blackwood Manor is yours, should you choose to claim it. Judge Harlan will explain the terms." He should have thrown it away. He should have burned it and walked away and kept walking until he reached the coast and found a ship and never looked back at America. But the Beaumont blood...
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