The box was locked, and the key was in the desk drawer, and the desk drawer was locked, and the key to that was around Silas Faulkner's neck on a chain that had stained his skin the color of old copper.
He stood in the master bedroom of Winged Oaks, the main house that had once encompassed two thousand acres and three cotton plantations and now consisted of two hundred acres and a roof that leaked in seven places, and he held the key against his palm and felt its weight like a verdict. Silas was thirty-one, the last Faulkner to live at Winged Oaks, and he had returned to this house after his...
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