The heat in South Carolina does not simply sit on you. It presses. It is a weight, a presence, a constant reminder that the earth beneath your feet is still warm from a sun that has no mercy for people who cannot afford shade.
Elias Thorne knew this heat the way a prisoner knows the walls of his cell. He had been born in the Thorne family plantation house on the edge of Magnolia Creek, a house that had once been white and proud and now was gray and leaning, its porch sagging like a tired mouth. The house had belonged to his great-grandfather, then his grandfather, then his father, who had drunk himself into an early...
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