The house smelled of river and rot and jasmine, which is not a combination you encounter every day unless you live on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi in August.
Eleanor Beauregard stood on the front porch and let the humidity wrap around her like a wet sheet. Ten years. Ten years since she had last stood here, and the house had not changed—still sagging at the corners, still painted a white that had turned the color of old teeth, still surrounded by magnolia trees whose roots had long ago cracked the foundation into a mosaic of regret. The key was...
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