The Accused. Jana DeLeon

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      “Heart attack was the official ruling, but I’d argue that a more apt description was a broken heart.”

      “Hmm. Rather a poetic statement for an attorney.”

      William gave him a small smile. “Comes from having a British mother who loved the classics, I suppose.”

      “And Purcell? I assume the broken-heart thing wasn’t his bag?”

      “Hardly, but Purcell had all sorts of issues.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “He was so secretive—people-avoidant, quite frankly. When he moved into the house, he convinced Ophelia to give up all her volunteer work within the community and to pull the girls out of public school. They rarely left the house.”

      “And after Ophelia died?”

      “Until the day the coroner carried his body out, I am not aware that he ever left the house again. The caretaker was born on the estate and never left, so he was on hand to tend to most things day to day, and after Purcell shut himself off, he convinced Jack Granger to play errand boy for him.”

      “When he was sober enough to drive.”

      William nodded. “And probably when he wasn’t. I think Purcell threw enough money at him to keep him in beer, but not much else. He did some grumbling after Purcell died. I think he was expecting something by way of inheritance.”

      “So no one knew that Purcell didn’t have the authority to dispense Ophelia’s money.”

      “Not unless Purcell told them, and I doubt he would have let that fact loose. I’d hazard a guess that he got cheap labor off some of the Calais citizens for years with promises of riches at his death.”

      “So there might be some pissed-off people in Calais?”

      William shrugged. “Maybe, but Granger is the only one I can think of who still lives here, and anyone with a lick of sense and decency wouldn’t begrudge those girls their inheritance, even if it meant that Purcell played them for a fool.”

      Carter nodded, mulling over everything William had told him. From start to finish to now, it was a strange setup. “The thing I don’t understand is, why did Purcell marry Ophelia for her money, then hide away in the bayou after her death? He’d already disposed of her children, so his responsibilities were minimal. Shouldn’t he have been on a tropical island with a flock of sexy women?”

      “Yes, that would have followed more the norm, but I think that’s where Purcell’s issues came in. I think he was already pulling away from society and saw Ophelia’s riches as a way to avoid any interaction with the outside world because he wouldn’t be required to hold a job. Her death only entrenched that belief because without Ophelia and the girls, he had no one pressing him to venture outside of his own mind.”

      “So he was crazy?”

      “I have no medical training for the basis of my opinion, but yes, I’d say crazy. However, crazy, in this case, does not absolve intent. I have no proof, of course, but I think Purcell was a mean man—deliberately mean to Ophelia and the girls. Evil requires calculation.”

      Carter shook his head, wondering if any of the information he’d gained meant something now. Certainly it gave him a better view of the circumstances that led to his current problem—and gave him at least ten more reasons to hate Purcell—but he wasn’t sure it gave him any direction on the situation with Alaina.

      He looked over at William. “I don’t suppose you believe in ghosts, do you?”

      William was silent for a moment. “Well, if it’s a ghost you saw, let’s hope for Alaina’s sake that it was Ophelia and not Trenton.”

      ALAINA UNPACKED the last of the groceries from the boxes she’d lugged into the kitchen. The staples were strewn across the long stone countertop that formed the bar, but that was all she’d taken the time to wipe down. Tomorrow, she’d lug the boxes with cleaning supplies into the kitchen and tackle the pantry and inside of the cabinets. Once they were clean, she’d head into Calais to get some refrigerated items, now that she’d ensured the ancient appliance was still working.

      A burst of thunder fired off and a bolt of lightning flashed across the glass wall of the breakfast area, causing her to jump. The second blast rolled through a couple of seconds later and giant raindrops began to plink against the windows.

       The ceiling!

      She’d meant to close the roof before she started unpacking but was so distracted that she’d forgotten. She rushed back to the entry and was relieved that no rain poured into the house. Now, as long as the switch worked, she was in business.

      Saying a silent prayer, she reached out and flipped the switch. The machinery whined for a couple of seconds, but then the roof started to slide slowly back in place. She blew out a breath of relief as the panel slid over the last foot of the glass.

      The lack of light hid the dust and grime, but it invited in the spooky. The vases and other objets d’art that resided on the freestanding columns stood like silent sentinels in the dim light. Surely the entry contained another light source. Glancing down the walls, she spotted sconces placed every twenty feet or so. Now, if she could just find the switch.

      She started checking to her right, thinking if it were her house, she’d want a switch located somewhere outside the kitchen, but as she traveled farther and farther away from the kitchen hallway, she realized that logic had apparently not entered into switch-plate placement in this house.

      As she drew closer to the back of the entry, in the darkest corner of the room, a buzzer sounded and she barely fought back a scream.

      The laundry.

      As she headed down the hallway to the laundry room, she chided herself. First the storm; now she was jumping at appliances. Thirteen more days in this house stretched ahead of her. She had to get a grip.

      She pulled the sheets from the dryer and transferred the blanket from the washing machine to dry. So far, William’s word that the house was serviceable was holding up, which was a relief. She sniffed the sheets and was relieved that the dust and slight smell of mold were no longer present. The last thing she needed was to get sick in this environment. Leaving would be the only way to get healthy again.

      As she folded the sheets, lightning flashed, lighting up the overgrown courtyard outside the laundry room. She froze. Was something moving outside? Surely not, given the storm. She placed the sheets on the dryer to try to get a better look.

      The humidity from the storm had the glass panels on the door fogging over, thus limiting visibility. She stepped close to the door and rubbed a peephole, then peered out into the darkness. The foliage swayed in the wind, the occasional bursts of lightning casting rays of light in between the branches and leaves. Whatever she’d seen was solid. At least she thought it was, but because she’d caught it out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t be certain.

      Her peephole fogged over again and before she could change her mind, she reached for the doorknob. She’d just step out under the overhang and see if she could get a better look.

      She sucked in a breath when the knob turned easily in her hand.

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