Josiah Beauregard found the body.
He was a man of forty-two, built like his father before him — broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with a face that had been carved by sun and wind and the slow erosion of disappointment. He stood over his son's body and did not move for a long time. The cypress trees stood around them like sentinels, their Spanish moss hanging like the rags of ghosts. The swamp water lapped at the edges of the...
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