The Beauregard Star Charts
The attic of the Beauregard house smelled of cedar and something else, something older that Eulalie could not name but recognized immediately, the way you recognize a word you heard as a child and have not thought of in thirty years. She stood in the doorway with a flashlight in her hand, the beam cutting through dust that had been undisturbed since 1969, the year her grandfather died and the...
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