The house did not creak. Creaking implied movement, and the Beaumont house had been still for so long that its silence had become a kind of architecture, a structure within a structure, holding up nothing but the weight of its own decay.
Ezekiel Beaumont stood in the front parlor and listened to that silence the way a doctor listens to a patient's breathing — not expecting good news, but needing to know whether the person was still alive. He was seventeen. He had been in New Orleans for three days, studying law at Tulane, when the telegram arrived: his father had suffered another episode, violent this time, and had to be...
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