The afternoon sun spilled over Charleston like a lie dressed in gold, making everything shimmer—but Samuel Montgomery could feel the false warmth right down to his bones. He stood on the second-floor balcony of the Montgomery house, hands resting on the cool stone railing, and looked down. The garden he had once planned and built with exacting care stretched out below him. The hedges were trimmed perfectly. The white roses bloomed brightly, almost sparkling. The marble paths were pristine, untouched by dirt or fallen leaves. On the surface, everything looked