Monroe, whose real name was Albin White, a name he savored, had seen a photo of his great-grandfather’s master, posed stiffly in a starched cream-colored suit and looking for all the world like a caricature of a ruthless plantation owner. Albin knew his name, Grayson Withers, and had years ago gone to find his great-grandson, Jordan, who still resided in Georgia. The plantation had long ago been trashed beyond recognition by Union troops, but the great-grandson had replicated the whitewashed manor house on a three-acre parcel of the former plantation he had carved off for himself. He was a developer, building cheaply made McMansions and selling them for exorbitant amounts to the newly wealthy. In other words, by fucking over the locals, he was approximately replicating more than just his forebear’s palatial residence.

Albin White went about his business. He watched the plantation house for a week, noting the comings and goings of everyone in the household: his target, the man’s wife, his two boys, aged eleven and thirteen. At a stable several miles away, he hired a horse from a tall, thin man with a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes. He rode at night onto the plantation grounds. The moon was full and what clouds raced overhead were thin and lacy. He rode the horse slowly until he came to the place where he imagined the lynching of his great-grandfather had taken place. A massive oak rose above his head. There was a branch, thick and gnarled as the trunk, that, as a human arm might point to something on the horizon, extended parallel to the ground. Looking up, he saw the rope being slung over that branch, the noose being slipped over his great-grandfather’s head to settle around his neck, the knot drawn tight so that when his feet jerked off the ground, his neck would break.

The horse snorted and pranced nervously, as if disturbed by White’s thoughts. He stayed like that, his hands on the pommel of the Western saddle, while he listened to the night birds. Grassy weeds twitched about the horse’s fetlocks. The saddle creaked as he shifted slightly. The cold moonlight fell on him like an affirmation of memory.

To the east of the house was a three-car garage, the only visible modern touch. The great-grandson had a car fetish. Vehicles that cost three hundred thousand dollars should not be kept out in the open.