The Accused. Jana DeLeon
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she heard a noise overhead. Immediately she froze, trying to determine if she’d heard the normal sounds of an old house, or if something else, of the four-legged, undesirable variety, was inside with her. Her pulse quickened when she realized it was footsteps—the two-legged kind.
A single glance at the crack in the front door made her blood run cold. She was positive she’d closed and locked it behind her after carrying in the last of the supplies. But someone was inside with her.
She reached for her purse and pulled out the pistol she’d begun carrying after receiving her first official death threat on the job. Despite the heat and humidity, the metal was cold in her hand. She dug around in the side pocket for her car keys and mentally cursed when she remembered she’d set them on the kitchen counter.
She eased back down the hallway, praying she could get her keys and get out of the house. Surely someone with a legitimate reason to be inside would have knocked or called out upon entering. She could only assume that whoever had come in was up to no good. That was a problem for the sheriff, not an unemployed attorney who had no interest in playing the hero.
The footsteps faded away as she slipped down the hallway and into the kitchen to retrieve her car keys. She moved silently on the stone floor, giving mental thanks that she’d worn comfortable tennis shoes and jeans and not her usual casual wear of slacks, blouse and high-heeled sandals.
All she had to do was make it back down the hallway and out of the house. An athletic scholarship for sprinting had paid for most of her college. If she could get outside the house, she had no doubt she could beat the intruder to her SUV and get away. But as she hurried across the kitchen to the hallway, the pantry door flew open. Unable to stop, she collided with it and went sprawling to the ground, her pistol sliding across the stone floor.
She scrambled for the gun as a dark figure stepped out of the pantry. Panicked, she made a desperate reach for the pistol, which was still several inches away.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A deep voice sounded above her.
Chapter Three
One look at the man and she knew she didn’t stand a chance. He was easily six feet tall, with strong arms and chest. The butt of a pistol peeked out of the waistband of his jeans and she had no doubt he could fire before she could even latch on to her weapon.
This was it. Her life would come full circle in this swamp—birth to death.
“Alaina LeBeau?” he asked, staring down at her with a mixture of aggravation and resignation.
“Yes.” She pushed herself up to a sitting position.
He studied her face for a moment, then sighed and extended his hand to help her up from the floor. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Then why were you sneaking around my house and hiding in the pantry?” The fear she’d felt only seconds ago was speeding away, only to be replaced by aggravation now that she no longer felt threatened.
His green eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t ‘sneak around’ private property, and that’s not a pantry—it’s a stairwell.”
She peered around him into the doorway and, sure enough, saw a narrow set of stairs leading up to the second floor. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“I’m Carter Trahan—Sheriff Carter Trahan—and I’m here to check off one day on my babysitting roster.”
Alaina clenched her jaw, forcing herself to pause before replying to his insulting statement. The last thing she needed was to alienate the man required to check up on her. “Mr. Duhon informed me that you’d be monitoring the residency terms of the will. I hardly need a babysitter.”
He merely raised one eyebrow and gave her an amused smile.
“Well, if you’re done slamming doors into visitors, Sheriff Trahan, I should get back to my unpacking. Next time you check on me, please knock.”
“I did knock … twice. Then I opened the door and called out from the entrance. I thought my voice would echo up to the second floor, but you kept on walking, so I went upstairs to catch you there.”
Alaina stared at him. “That’s impossible. I haven’t been upstairs yet.”
Carter frowned. “I saw someone enter the hallway upstairs that runs parallel to this one.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “It wasn’t me,” she managed, “and I came here alone. Perhaps the caretaker …”
He shook his head. “Amos is eighty-six years old and walks with a limp. Whoever this was walked quickly enough to disappear before I got upstairs. When I got to the bedroom over the kitchen, I could hear noise downstairs. The door to the servant’s stairwell was partially open, so I assumed you’d gone down that way.”
He pushed shut the door to the stairwell and had to give it an extra nudge when it jammed in the doorframe. “The door had no lock, but it stuck when I tried to open it. I hit it with my shoulder, which is why it flew open and struck you. But if anyone had used it right before me, you would have heard and seen them.”
“I heard you walking upstairs. That’s why I was hurrying to get out of the house, but I didn’t hear anyone before.”
Alaina crossed her arms in front of her chest, a slight chill running over her. “You’re sure you saw someone? Maybe it was a trick of shadows and light. Between the storm brewing and that glass ceiling, maybe it just looked like someone was upstairs.”
“Maybe,” he said, but he didn’t look as though he believed it for a minute.
He spun around and strode down the hallway to the entry. Ignoring his abrupt departure, Alaina hurried behind him as he knelt in front of the circular stairs.
“Only one set of prints, and they’re mine,” he said, pointing to the prints that led up the dusty staircase.
“Maybe it was a ghost,” Alaina joked.
Carter rose and narrowed his eyes at her. “What ghost?”
She shrugged. “None in particular. I just figured old, spooky house equaled a ghost story of some sort, especially in a small community.”
“The locals have their share of beliefs about this house and your stepfather, but I prefer to deal with what I can prove. Given your profession, I assume you appreciate that.”
“Of course. I was just joking.” But she knew she was lying, before the words left her mouth. The memory of her mother’s ghost was something she couldn’t deny and had never been able to forget.
“Because I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said, “I’m going to take a look around.”
“Of course … Thank you.”
He nodded. “Do you know how to use that pistol?”
“Yes. I practice at the range at least once a week.”
“Keep it on you. I’ll make sure I announce myself before accosting you again.”
He pulled his pistol from his waistband and strode up the stairs. She watched him for a couple of seconds, then ran back to the kitchen to scoop her pistol up from the floor. Her apprehension when she’d first arrived had turned into full-fledged worry.
Something didn’t feel right.
The last time she’d felt that way, a child had died.
CARTER PEERED INTO each bedroom off the main hallway over the kitchen, but none of them showed any signs of human passage. Tiny tracks of four-legged critters appeared periodically, but he easily identified and dismissed them. Four-legged creatures may not be desirable inside a home, but there were worse things.
The more space he covered with no indication of the intruder, the more frustrated he became with the entire situation. When William had