The house is old. Older than air conditioning and central heat, built back when the town had a steady stream of vacationers coming down from Houston each week on an excursion train.
People came in droves seeking any relief they could from the summer heat.
They call the style of the house both tidewater (wide porch, pier and beam foundation) and shot gun, because the rooms run in a line with doors between them so that the whole house could be opened with a straight path for the gulf winds to blow through.
Shotgun because you could stand at the front door with all the others open and shoot a clean bullet through those doors without hitting a thing.
As though you could see a man do this in his own house.
I am so sorry about your uncle. Chris says as they walk through the sunroom into the dimly lit kitchen.
She nods but says nothing. The house is a story. She is afraid of the last chapters. Afraid of what she will find.