Blood on the Porch
The porch of the Beauregard house sagged like a tired mouth. Lillian sat on it every evening in September 1935, watching the street that had once been proud and was now proud only in the way that ruined things are proud: with the stubborn insistence that what they were is more important than what they have become. She had arrived three weeks earlier from New Orleans, carrying four trunks that...
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