The Betrayed

by Jana DeLeon

  “I don’t like it,” Alaina said when she’d finished. “Not at all. Are you sure you won’t delay your two weeks until I can return?”

  As tempting as that was, Danae couldn’t agree with her sister’s suggestion. “To what end? Then both of us would potentially be in danger instead of just one. If something is going on in the house, delaying my stay won’t stop it any more than delaying your stay would have stopped things for you.”

  The sound of static rang in Danae’s ears, and for a moment, she thought they’d been disconnected.

  Finally, Alaina sighed and said, “I know you’re right, and I’d be saying the same thing if the situation was reversed. At least promise me that you won’t be at the house alone. If the contractor leaves to buy supplies, go with him.”

  Danae clutched the cell phone. The last thing she wanted to do was get into close proximity to Zach again, and riding in a vehicle with him violated the “close proximity” rule. “If I have any reason for concern, I’ll leave the house when he does.”

  “Since we’re cut from the same cloth, I’m going to assume you’re as hardheaded as I am and won’t bother pushing for more. But please be careful. Be watchful. It took most of my life to find you. I don’t want to lose you again.”

  Danae’s eyes moistened at her sister’s words. In reality, her sister was a stranger, but apparently Alaina felt the same connection she did.

  “I’ll sleep with my eyes open,” Danae said.

  “And don’t be afraid to call Carter if things feel off. He’ll come without question and he won’t mock you if it turns out to be nothing. He’s sorta great that way.”

  Danae smiled, happy her sister and Carter had found each other. Danae had admired Carter Trahan, both physically and mentally, since her arrival in Calais, but she’d known right away that he wasn’t the man for her. He was gorgeous and smart and all white-knighty, but seeing him didn’t give her that little thrill—that spark that she knew she’d feel with the right someone.

  Like with Zach.

  “I will call Carter anytime I’m unnerved,” Danae promised, trying to block all thoughts of Zach from her mind.

  “Well, the connection is getting worse, so I guess I better let you go. Stay safe, Danae.”

  “You, too.” Danae waited until the call dropped then placed her cell phone on the counter.

  The cheese and butter still sat on the cabinet where she’d left them earlier, but all thoughts of food had flown from her mind during Alaina’s call. She stuck the items back into the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. On the upside, between general anxiety and skipping meals, it would be no time before she worked off those ten pounds she’d gained working at the café.

  She set the water on the tiny breakfast table and slid into a chair. Her shoulder bag lay at the edge of the table, a stack of manila folders peeking out from underneath. It was all she’d grabbed from Purcell’s office when she and Zach had investigated the noise. She could have made another trip before leaving, but the thought of going back into that room had overcome logic, and she’d left with only what she’d brought down that first trip.

  Still, even a couple of files were enough to start working with. A couple of hours billed meant the day wouldn’t be a complete loss. She pulled the folders over in front of her. A bunch of old paperwork should take her mind off things, maybe even bore her enough that she could sleep.

  The first folder contained a list of household purchases made several months after her mother’s death, and the costs—bread, milk, cereal, butter, toilet paper—all seemed like basic domestic stuff and not at all what William was looking for. The next five pages were more of the same, the date of the weekly trip noted in the upper left of each sheet of paper. It wasn’t useful for the lawyer’s purposes, but it did give Danae an insight into how her stepfather had lived.

  Sighing, she flipped through the rest of the pages in the first folder, finding nothing of interest. It made no sense to her that her stepfather had access to all her mother’s wealth, but had locked himself away in that monstrosity of a house and, based on this paperwork, lived on a diet of cereal and toast.

  The second folder contained more itemized shopping lists, but these were completely different from the others. A quick check of the date let her know that the purchases were made months before her mother’s death. The lists contained all the things she’d expect a household with three young children to have and stood in stark contrast to the lists in the previous folder.

  The last pages contained in the folder appeared to be an investment account statement. Her eyes widened at the balance in the account, and she had to take a minute to remind herself that William had already told her the estate’s holdings were significant. Still, hearing it and seeing it on paper were two completely different things. All her life, she’d gotten by on very little. It was next to impossible to imagine such riches that one no longer considered price.

  She scanned the entries and found a few that might interest William. A vase that cost eight thousand dollars with the notation “Ming Dynasty.” A two-thousand-dollar purchase for a grandfather clock. A three-thousand-dollar Persian rug.

  Shaking her head, she tried to wrap her mind around the valuables the house contained under all those layers of dust and grime. Assuming the items weren’t damaged, it might be akin to a museum when clean. She flipped the page over and scanned the next one, hoping to find more nuggets for William, but this page didn’t contain any large expenses. She checked the dates and frowned. It was the week her mother died.

  Determined not to let it affect her, she flipped to the next page and scanned until she found four twenty-thousand-dollar entries. Funeral expenses, maybe. But when she read the notations, her head started to pound. Four people’s names—one of them, the woman she’d been sent to live with. No wonder the woman had taken her in.

  Danae had always wondered, but now she knew. She should have known before now—everything with Rose was about money. Money or booze or a fix. But somehow, seeing it there in black and white made it all the more pathetic.

  She pushed the stack of files away and took a sip of water. The apprehension she’d felt earlier had been replaced with anger. Anger at her stepfather for selling her out to a junkie. Anger at Rose for taking money for a child she never intended to care for. Anger at her mother for dying and leaving them helpless against their evil stepfather.

  She rose and paced the tiny living room twice before stopping in front of the window. She pulled the thick curtains to the side and peered out into the darkness. He’d paid them off. He’d pawned off his wife’s children for twenty thousand apiece.

  Four entries.

  The thought jolted through her mind and she frowned. Why four entries? There were only the three sisters. Danae had recognized one of the other names as the people who’d raised Alaina and assumed one of the other names was the person Joelle had been sent to live with. But why was there a fourth entry?

  What else had her stepfather paid for?

  Chapter Eight

  Despite the heavy dinner and two beers he’d consumed at the café, Zach couldn’t settle in the caretaker’s cabin. In fact, he was more restless now than he’d been earlier that day. Of course, earlier, he’d thought his only obstacle was getting around Danae to search for the answers he sought. But when he put all the facts together, it looked as if he and Danae were not the only people interested in the house.

  Whoever was lurking in the LeBeau mansion was brazen enough to attempt going about his business during the day, even when both he and Danae were right below. Zach had worked with enough cons to know that meant one of three things: he was cocky, he was desperate, or he was perfectly willing to kill them if they got in his way.

  None were good options, especially as it further complicated his plans for sneaking into the house after normal working hours. What if he ran into the intruder when he himself was an intruder? If Danae or Carter caught him in a late-night excursion, they might look harder int
o his background.

  He blew out a breath and stared at the old paneled wall from his resting place on an ancient, lumpy couch. Finally, he jumped up from the couch and pulled on his hiking boots. No way was he going to get a moment’s rest without working off some of this energy. It probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but he was going to grab his flashlight and pistol and walk down the trail to the main house.

  Maybe he’d get lucky and catch the intruder red-handed—wrap things up nicely so that Danae let down her guard, giving him more room to maneuver. By the way she’d responded when he’d kissed her, he knew it was possible to distract her. But certain distractions—like the intruder—would only make the cagey heiress more observant.

  He grabbed his pistol from the kitchen counter and dug his flashlight from his duffel bag, then headed out into the night.

  The sounds of night creatures drifted by as he inched down the overgrown path, but the swamp wasn’t as active as he’d thought it would be given the density of the undergrowth. Although he lived in the city, he was no stranger to hunting and sleeping outdoors, but this swamp had a different feel to it than any other he’d ever been in.

  Logically, he should be able to attribute the unsettling atmosphere to his general unease over the entire situation, but he knew it went deeper than that. This swamp felt alive in some way. Certainly, many of the things that comprised a swamp were living plants and creatures, but it was more than that. It was almost as if the swamp had taken all those living and nonliving items and somehow created its own identity.

  It pressed at him as he hurried down the path as quickly as he dared. Sometimes the dense undergrowth all but covered the path, and the last thing he wanted was to wander off the trail. The swamp was inhabited by many deadly creatures as much as it consisted of plants, water and dirt.

  He felt as if he’d walked forever when his shoulder slammed into something solid. He turned his flashlight beam up from the path, thinking he’d hit a tree, but was surprised to see a stone column covered in vines. He’d walked right into the overgrown patio off the kitchen of the main house.

  Although he hated to do it, he shut off the flashlight and used his hands to feel his way to the stone wall of the house. The last thing he wanted to do was alert the intruder that someone was there, watching and waiting.

  He used the wall to guide him around to the front of the house then stopped at the edge of the brush just before the circular driveway. His eyes were growing more accustomed to the dark, finally able to make out the shape of the decrepit fountain. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and he brushed it away. The humidity was getting worse—the air growing thicker and more still, like it did before a storm.

  He cursed the caretaker for not having a television, but knew that reception would likely be spotty even on the clearest night. Still, he should have checked the weather when he was in the café, which surprisingly provided free Wi-Fi. He could only guess that many homes in Calais were left stranded with no way to contact the outside world during a good storm unless they had landlines.

  His back began to tighten from standing in the one position, so he squatted, letting his legs do the work for a bit. Only ten minutes passed before his legs began to tighten, so he rose back up with a sigh. Apparently twelve years of general contracting wasn’t as much of a workout as his days serving as catcher on his high school baseball team.

  Locks of hair clung to his forehead as the humidity cranked up another notch, and he pushed the damp strands back on his head. This was stupid. He’d let a bout of nerves and boredom override good common sense. If he started back now, he might have time to get in a shower before the storm hit and likely took out the power.

  Disgusted with the situation and himself, he started to turn, but as he shifted, something moved at the edge of his viewing range. His body froze even as he yanked his head in the direction of the movement. It was impossible to tell for certain, but it looked as if something or someone was directly across from him at the edge of the driveway.

  Crossing the driveway put him in the open, and although it was cloudy, the sky cleared periodically, allowing thin streams of moonlight to pass through. All it would take was a second of moonlight to give him away in the open. He took a couple steps back from the edge of the driveway and began inching around it, carefully picking each step to keep the sound as quiet as possible.

  When he made it about ten feet, he stepped up to the edge of the brush again and checked for movement on the other side. At that moment, the clouds moved away and moonlight filled the courtyard, casting a dim glow into the swamp on the other side of the driveway. He strained, trying to make out any form of movement in the brush, but everything was still.

  Too still.

  The thought occurred to him just as a scream ripped through the night sky. He pulled his pistol from his waistband and whirled around, trying to locate the source of the noise. It was a terrifying wail—like that of a doomed soul.

  Then everything went completely quiet again.

  In the upstairs window of the house, a light appeared—faint at first, then growing to a pulsing mass, the size of a human. Then as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone.

  He heard the footsteps behind him too late. Before he could spin around, he felt the crack of something hard on the side of his head. His temple exploded as if he’d been shot and he fell to the ground, a pair of hiking boots the last thing he saw.

  * * *

  THE ATTACKER HURRIED down the trail deep into the swamp where he’d stashed his vehicle hours before. He’d spent a frustrating couple of hours inside the house before he caught sight of the maintenance man lurking around outside. He’d snuck out the back door and then patiently and silently crept up behind him until he was within striking distance.

  Maybe the solid blow to the head would give the maintenance man a reason to hightail it back to New Orleans and get out of his way. He just hoped the blow hadn’t been strong enough to kill him. It would be impossible to get things done with the police crawling all over the place. The last meddling heiress had brought enough trouble to town with her. It had been weeks since he’d felt comfortable returning to business.

  If only Purcell would have held on a little longer, but the old bastard had managed to screw him, even in death.

  * * *

  THE LIGHT SHIMMERED above her and Danae reached up, trying to touch it. She didn’t know why she wasn’t afraid, why she didn’t flee. All she knew was that the light made her feel safe and warm. It rose above her, almost to the ceiling of the cabin, and she gasped as it changed and shifted until the pale figure of a woman came into view.

  Her face was familiar, but it took a moment for Danae to realize why. The woman looked like Alaina, but different.

  “Mother.” Danae’s voice was barely a whisper.

  The figure’s mouth moved, as if speaking, but Danae couldn’t hear even a whisper of sound.

  “I can’t hear you. What are you saying?”

  A single tear ran down her mother’s face and she began to fade.

  “No!” Danae sat upright, her hands reaching for the shimmering light as it faded away.

  “So close...so close...close.” The whisper came as the light faded.

  Danae leaped from the couch, landing on her feet with her heart beating so loudly she swore she could hear it. She blinked a couple of times, trying to get her bearings, then realized she was standing in the living room of her rented cabin, file folders scattered across the coffee table in front of her.

  I must have fallen asleep on the couch. It was a dream.

  But even as she thought it, she frowned. It had seemed so real—as if her mother were really there in the room with her. As if she’d tried to speak to her.

  So close.

  That was what her mother had said in the dream, but close to what? Close to finding her past? Close to finding herself? She’d been searching for both for so long that some days she wasn’t certain exactly what she was looking for any longer. S
ome days, she just felt tired. Tired of being on constant alert. Tired of regarding everyone she met as suspicious. Tired of erecting walls that no one could scale.

  Tired of being alone.

  As that last thought occurred to her, a mental image of Zach flashed through her mind. He was one of the most attractive men she’d ever met, and in her line of work, she’d met a lot. There was something about his easy smile that made her relax around him even when her mind was telling her to keep her guard up. Something about his obvious concern that made her feel he cared.

  Two stellar reasons to keep her distance from the sexy contractor.

  She glanced at her watch and sighed. Not even 5:00 a.m. The café would be opening soon, but she didn’t feel like having a run-in with Jack this early in the morning. Ever since Carter had filled her in on the situation with the cook and her stepfather, she’d felt bad for the man, but that didn’t mean she was going to give him the chance to snipe at her. Jack hadn’t been the most pleasant of people to work with when he’d thought she was just Connie the café waitress. Her emergence as Danae LeBeau, heiress, had probably tipped him right past rude and into angry.

  Her pantry was sorely in need of restocking, but she could manage eggs and toast. There was no point in attempting to sleep any longer. She was too edgy—whether it was from everything that had happened since yesterday morning or the dream, she wasn’t sure, but either way, sleep was a thing of the past.

  She took a step toward the kitchen then froze. Was that a noise outside her cabin? It sounded like scratching. She held her breath, trying to lock in on where the noise had originated, but only the buzz of the ancient refrigerator echoed back at her. She took two cautious steps toward the living-room window and peered outside.

  The morning sun hadn’t yet peeked over the thick cypress trees, so it was too dark to see anything outside except for the faint silhouette of the tree line, but she felt someone there. Watching. Waiting.