The saxophone sounded like a man talking to himself at three in the morning, which was exactly what Julian Ashworth III was doing when he found the letter. It was November 1925, and the party on the A
He was in his father's study, pretending to look at books while actually avoiding a conversation with a woman from Jersey who wanted to know why he played music instead of running the estate. The study smelled of leather and cigars and old money, and on the desk beneath a stack of unpaid bills, his fingers found an envelope sealed with wax that had been cracked before he was born. "Julian. If...
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