The Accused. Jana DeLeon

all in seeking out the man who’d treated her mother horribly, then split up her children, sending them to the far ends of the country to become someone else’s responsibility.

      She’d thought going away to college would eliminate the draw. Once she was around like-minded peers and out of the environment where she was odd man out, she’d hoped she’d finally feel as if she belonged. But despite her contentment with school and a close group of friends, mental images of the swamp haunted her subconscious, finding their way into her dreams.

      Her conscious mind wasn’t as clear on the details, so the dark patch of dirt now passing as a road didn’t appear familiar. She wondered if the house would.

      It felt like an eternity that she inched her SUV down the makeshift trail. But finally, after easing her way around a sharp turn in the road, the house came into view, looming above her.

      Involuntarily, she hit the brakes and stared, sucking in a breath. On a conscious level, it was as if she was seeing it for the first time. The dreary stone facade and sharp peaks of the roof didn’t register mentally, but her body responded. Her chest tightened and her pulse increased.

      It scared her.

      The thought ripped through her mind and she immediately chided herself. You’ve spent your entire life focused on the facts and what you could prove. Now you’re letting yourself lose it with fanciful thoughts. Get a grip.

      She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and slowly blew it out. Then she opened her eyes and studied the house with the critical eye she used to study witnesses in a courtroom.

      It was still gloomy with its broken shutters and paint peeling on the wooden eaves. The lawn—if one could even call it that—had been swallowed up by weeds and swamp grass that stood at least a foot high. Even the flower beds had been overrun, the stone edging barely visible behind the foliage. An enormous marble fountain that stood in the center of the circular drive had probably been beautiful at one time; but now it was covered with vines, its base filled with murky, stagnant water.

      The attorney who’d explained the terms of the inheritance had called the estate “serviceable, if not pleasant.” Alaina decided he must be very good at his job. Legally, she couldn’t fault his description, but it left out so much.

      It’s only two weeks.

      Mr. Duhon had assured her that any repairs necessary to habitation would be handled by his firm, so it was merely a matter of picking up the phone if she found anything unlivable. A caretaker lived in a cottage somewhere on the property, but the attorney had warned her that the man was elderly and had not been allowed to hire help to keep up the property.

      The results of yet another poor decision made by her stepfather spread out before her.

      She pulled her SUV around the circular drive that had more weeds showing than the paved stones that comprised it, and parked as close as she could to the front doors. Dark clouds swirled overhead, and she worried that the storm that was scheduled to move in tonight might make an early appearance.

      She’d packed only a single suitcase of personal items, but her laptop and food and living supplies took up another couple of boxes. With any luck, she’d get it all inside before the dam broke. Her suitcase had wheels, so she rolled it up the walkway and dragged it up the stone steps to the front door. She removed the enormous iron key from her purse and slid it into the lock, wondering if it would work in the rusted lock.

      To her surprise, it turned easily, and a loud click echoed in the silent courtyard. She pushed the ten-foot wooden door open and stepped inside.

      The entry resembled a museum more than a home. A huge, round open area stretched up two stories, a giant spiral staircase offering passage from the first floor to the balcony that circled above. Rooms and hallways branched off from the open area in every direction on both floors. Marble columns stood randomly throughout the downstairs area, vases and statues covered with thick layers of dust perching on top of them.

      Okay, definitely kind of creepy.

      That was her official legal opinion and the best prosecutor in the world couldn’t talk her out of it. Still, creepy was tolerable, especially with strong overhead lights. She reached for the switch plate behind her and the area surrounding the front door flooded with light.

      She peered into the dim center of the enormous entry and frowned. Surely there was more lighting than this. Checking the wall behind her, she noticed another switch, this one lower on the wall than the light switch she’d flipped earlier. She reached over and pushed the remaining switch up.

      The load groan and high-pitched squeals of machinery startled her and she stifled a scream as she scanned the room for the source of the noise. A sheet of light hit the floor in the entry and she looked up to see the roof sliding open. The flickering sun glinted off the glass ceiling the sliding panel exposed inch by inch. From the sounds of metal grinding, the panels hadn’t been opened in some time.

      Saying a silent prayer that they didn’t break and cause the whole thing to come crashing down into the house, she watched until the panels slid completely from view. Relieved that she hadn’t broken anything after barely getting in the door, she took her first good look at the giant entry.

      She sighed. It certainly didn’t look more cheerful in the light, and the cleanliness factor had actually dropped several points, but it gave her something to do. Manual labor was her preferred method of freeing her mind for thought. This house would provide plenty of thinking projects. And maybe, at the end of her two weeks, she’d have a plan for her career, for her life. Heck, fourteen days of cleaning this place and she might solve world hunger.

      She hurried back to her SUV to get the rest of her supplies. Once she had everything inside, she’d go exploring for the necessities—kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and laundry facilities. Mr. Duhon had assured her all the necessary items were functional, so at least she didn’t have to worry about scrubbing her underwear on a stone in the fountain or cooking dinner over an open fire in the courtyard.

      Twenty minutes later, she had a pile of boxes and bags just inside the front door and felt less than excited about lugging them farther. The years of college study and sitting at a desk all day had apparently outweighed her morning jogs, especially when added on top of a long, somewhat apprehensive drive.

      She glanced around the entry, figuring she’d find the kitchen first, then finally set off down a wide hallway to her left, assuming the largest hallways were more likely to lead to well-used areas. At the end of the hallway, a large arch opened into a spacious kitchen and breakfast area.

      The room was at least twenty-five feet square with miles of stone countertops and windows framing every wall of the eating area. She looked out at the weeds and vines and froze as a sudden flash of pink azaleas, lush grass and a blooming magnolia tree ran through her mind. She’d eaten here looking out into the onetime beautiful gardens. It was so clear in her mind that it was as if she were looking at a snapshot.

      Sighing, she walked back down the hall to begin moving the supplies to the kitchen. What had just happened was something she needed to get used to. She’d been old enough to remember the house when she’d left, but the trauma of losing her mother and her sisters all at once had forced those memories so far back into the recesses of her mind that she wondered if they’d been gone forever. Apparently that wasn’t the case, and being in the house was probably going to bring back some of those memories.

      Maybe that was a good thing. At seven years old, she hadn’t been capable of processing what she’d been through on a logical level. Now that she was an adult, maybe it was time she dealt with her less-than-stellar past once and for all. Maybe it was something she needed to do to move forward with her career and her personal life.

      The only clear memory she had was of that night—the night before they were sent away. And the sheer figure of her mother, dressed in a long white flowing gown and hovering over her bed.

      She shook her head, trying to clear the image from her mind. It had been frozen there for so long, the lone thing she’d carried with her all these years. Logically, she knew that she’d