Brandi Feldman stared through her windshield at the monstrosity before her. It was all hers, or would be soon—the old plantation-style house, the two acres it sat on and all the work required to make the place livable.

Mold and algae covered wood siding that had long passed its time for new paint. A porch stretched across the front, a second-story balcony above it. Neither bore any signs of life—no porch swing, no rocking chairs, no hanging plants.

And someone didn’t want her here.

The anonymous letter had arrived two days after the package from the lawyer. Both had come addressed to her, in care of her parents. Her mom and dad hadn’t opened either one, but the arrival of the nine-by-twelve manila envelope with the name and address of a New Orleans attorney had instigated a family meeting, one that had begun with her mother’s statement, “There’s something we haven’t told you.”

Brandi had said some things she shouldn’t have. But that conversation had left her reeling. Nothing like learning at twenty-six years old that she’d been lied to all her life.

Opening that envelope had provided another shock. Inside was a letter and copy of a will, one that had named her as an heir of a grandmother she hadn’t even known she’d had.

Well, she couldn’t say she was named, at least not in a literal sense. The words Brandi Feldman didn’t appear anywhere in the document. Instead, she was listed as the daughter of Cecile Abellard, with a birthdate. The birthdate was hers. The date of adoption followed. The property was titled in the name of the Caroline Abellard Trust, listing this unnamed child as the trust’s beneficiary.

Brandi unfastened her seat belt, leaving the car doors locked. She’d come, despite the warning not to, but she wasn’t reckless enough to do it alone. She unclipped her phone from its holder on the dash and sent another call through to her brother Braydon. He’d left Pensacola an hour after she had to give her the opportunity to finish her meeting with the lawyer and allow him to wrap up some things before his unplanned trip to Louisiana. The timing would have been perfect if a minivan hadn’t tangled with a tanker truck on Interstate 10.

Braydon answered on the second ring. “You’re finished at the lawyer’s office?”

“I’m at the house. Where are you?”

“Traffic’s been rerouted. I’m still forty-five minutes out.”

“I’m waiting in the car.”

“Doors locked?”

“Of course.” She smiled. Both of her brothers were protective, but when she’d been getting threats after a nasty breakup, it was Braydon who’d insisted she move in with him. He’d even installed a GPS tracker on her phone. Eventually, her ex, Rickey, had gone back to Iowa, and she’d stopped looking over her shoulder. Then last week, she’d learned from a friend that he was back.

“Maybe you should wait for me at the motel. I’ll text you the address.”

Braydon had said he’d make reservations before leaving home. Not knowing the condition of the house, she’d agreed with his decision. According to the lawyer, the place had been vacant since her grandmother’s death seven months earlier. She’d died in the house. Apparently, a neighbor had found her. Her grandfather had been gone much longer.

Brandi looked around at the lengthening shadows. “If you’re only forty-five minutes away, I’d rather wait. I’m anxious to see what we’ll be facing.”

Or what she would be facing. Braydon was staying through the weekend. Then he’d have to be back in Pensacola for the start of his shift on Monday. Maybe by then they’d determine the warning letter she’d received was nothing more than a disgruntled relative making idle threats.

There were two heirs besides herself—nephews of her grandmother, Marcel and Louis Landry. They’d each inherited ten thousand dollars, funds that had already been disbursed. Brandi was to receive everything else—two bank accounts and the old house near the Mississippi River, just southeast of New Orleans. She didn’t know yet what the Landry brothers thought of her surprise inheritance. When she’d asked the attorney if their position as fellow heirs gave them access to her contact information, he’d assured her it didn’t.

But someone had found her. At least, they’d found her parents. That was disturbing, considering it had taken the attorney almost seven months to locate her.

Braydon’s sigh came through the phone. “Just stay alert. At the first sign of anything suspicious, get out of there.”

“I will.”

As of this morning, she’d still been at his place. The arrangement had worked well—he had help with cleaning and cooking, and she had the security of knowing Rickey couldn’t get to her without going through her ultraprotective law enforcement brother.

She disconnected the call. Her parents hadn’t wanted her to come. Her brothers had been concerned, but they’d understood. Right now, she was more inclined to listen to her twin brothers. They’d been only two when she’d been adopted as an infant—too young to remember how she’d arrived in the home. The deception was solely her parents’, and she was struggling to come to grips with the sense of betrayal, the sudden loss of identity, the feeling that the foundation had been swept from under her and she no longer knew who she was.

She looked out at the house she’d inherited. The Main Street address was misleading. She’d envisioned being surrounded by neighbors. She had only one. That home was barely visible through the trees.

With the property’s location a short distance outside the northern boundary of the tiny community of Belle Chasse, Louisiana, her route had led her past several cow pastures. On her right, a stable and a handful of industrial buildings had given way to a grassy slope. According to her map app, the Mississippi River lay on its other side.

She drew in a deep breath. Maybe the house wasn’t in as bad shape as she’d initially thought. Granted, it needed paint, and the yard looked as if it hadn’t seen a tool of any kind in months. Some pieces of soffit had blown down and lay partially hidden in the tall grass.

In spite of the peeling paint, though, the balcony and porch looked sturdy. At least they weren’t sagging. The cedar shakes on the roof didn’t appear worn or rotted, either, so maybe they’d done their job of keeping water out. She wouldn’t know for sure until she ventured inside.

As she waited, the sun sank lower, the woods to her left casting her yard in complete shadow. It would be dark before Braydon arrived.

She glanced in her rearview mirror as a vehicle moved into the frame, slowing almost to a stop before continuing past. A sense of vulnerability swept through her. She twisted in her seat to watch the truck—a dark gray F-150. Just past her property, its brake lights came on, and it turned into the driveway next door.

She checked the time again, uneasiness sweeping through her. Twenty more minutes. Hurry up, Braydon. She sent another call through.

“I’m going in the house.”

“You need to stay put.”

“It’s almost dark. A truck drove past, slowed down, then pulled into the driveway next door. I’m nervous sitting out in the open. It’s obvious I’m alone. That makes me an easy target for anyone driving by.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t like it.”

“You’ll be here in twenty minutes. I’ll be fine.”

She disconnected the call and scanned her surroundings. Curtains and sheers hung undisturbed at the windows. Other than light traffic passing behind her at regular intervals, there’d been no sign of movement anywhere.

After a moment’s indecision, she swung open the car door. A breeze slapped her in the face the moment she stepped out. Mid-February temperatures near New Orleans were similar to those in Pensacola, Florida—invigorating rather than uncomfortable.

She dashed toward the house and climbed the porch steps, casting an uneasy glance over her shoulder. When she slipped the key into the lock, the dead bolt slid over with a solid clunk. The door swung back, and the final remnants of daylight spilled into the large foyer. Shadows swallowed whatever lay beyond.

Out of habit, she flipped the light switches beside the door. She’d called the electric company yesterday afternoon. With today being Friday, Monday had been their earliest availability. The representative had advised her to turn off the main breaker before then. She’d promised she would. If there was a breaker to turn off. Maybe the house was still equipped with fuses.

The next services she’d scheduled were internet and water. Barring the unexpected, everything would be operational by midafternoon Monday.

After navigating to her phone’s flashlight app, she moved from the foyer into a large room to the left, apparently a living room or family room. In the narrow beam of light, a fine layer of dust dulled the sheen of the hardwood floor. Sheet-covered shapes lined the perimeter of the room, and a large crystal chandelier hung from a ten- or twelve-foot-high ceiling.

Walking in the other direction, she moved from one room to another—a parlor, two bathrooms and a billiard room, judging from what she guessed were two covered pool tables. A combination library/den occupied the front right corner of the house. She moved into the hall, shaking her head. The place was too big, too cold and impersonal.

Would she feel differently when she filled it with her possessions and put her own touches on the space? The opulence of the huge formal living room told her no. She’d never been pretentious. Relaxed and down-to-earth nailed her home decor style.

In the dining room, she slid her fingers over the surface of the twelve-seater mahogany table, making tracks in the dust. She could learn to appreciate this—room for every guest to sit at the table rather than some balancing paper plates on their thighs or sliding up to card tables. Though she was leaving most of her friends in Pensacola, she would make new ones here. After everything Rickey had put her through, this was her opportunity for a fresh start.

When she stepped into the kitchen, the floor creaked beneath her feet. A matching sound came from somewhere overhead, and she froze, listening. All was quiet. No footsteps, no movement at all.

Of course there wasn’t. Old houses creaked. She was alone. When she’d arrived, the house had been locked up tight. The front door had, anyway. She hurried to the back door. Yep, secured with a dead bolt. The door off the utility room was the same.

She backtracked to the other rooms. The dining room had no outside entry. The formal living room did—two sets of double French doors leading out back. After checking both, she was confident the house was secure.

She shook off the last of her uneasiness. Her history was here, in the tiny community of Belle Chasse. She would learn everything she could about the family she never knew and wouldn’t let any creaks or bumps in the night scare her away. Or threatening notes.

She returned to the kitchen. The refrigerator door was open a few inches. Good. It wouldn’t be filled with mildew. Maybe it would even work once the power was restored. The appliances had obviously been updated sometime in the past decade or two.

On the wall opposite the refrigerator, two doors stood side by side. She swung open the first. A large pantry occupied the space. The second door hid a narrow stairway. Maybe it led to servant quarters.

She started up the steps, her flashlight app lighting the way. They creaked under her weight but felt solid enough. When she reached the top, an open door stood to her right. Beyond it was a long hall. To her left was a much shorter hall, a small bedroom off each side. Definitely servant quarters. Both rooms were decorated simply, each holding a small desk, dresser, nightstand and three-quarter size bed.

After checking out the empty closets, she headed down the long hall. Two bedrooms lined each side, a bathroom between. She peered into the first room. It was larger and wasn’t nearly as sparse as the first two. Artwork decorated the walls, and the furniture was much more ornate. Besides the bedroom suit, there was a couch where guests could relax.

The next room was similar. So was the third, except this one also had two rockers and a crib. Had she been rocked in one of those chairs and slept in that bed? Or had her mother given her up without even so much as holding her?

The fourth one was different. She shone her light around the room. Posters decorated the walls, popular bands from an earlier time—Linkin Park, blink-182, System of a Down and Nickelback. She stepped farther into what had obviously been her mother’s room. The wall organizer hanging beside the bed held items that had probably been untouched for two decades. When she opened the door to the walk-in closet, clothing was hanging from both rods, and shoes filled all the cubbies at the back.

She stood motionless, waiting to feel some kind of connection to the woman who’d worn those clothes. It didn’t come. Her mother was nothing more than a name. Cecile Abellard. Names without memories meant nothing.

Brandi walked from the room and moved toward the closed door at the end of the hall, her phone sending a narrow swath of light through the darkness. Was that her grandmother’s room?

As she reached for the doorknob, a shiver shook her shoulders. She dropped her arm. What if there was a reason the door was closed?

No, she was being ridiculous. A single creak, a little darkness, and she’d gotten herself spooked. Besides, Braydon would be there in less than fifteen minutes. Then they would head for the motel.

Once the technicians restored the utilities and she was sure the place was safe, this was where she’d be. She had no job to go home to. For the first time ever, she hadn’t given a two-week notice. She’d walked in Wednesday morning and said she was leaving in two days.

She’d feel worse about that, except business had slowed down so much at the furniture store where she worked that, in the six weeks after Christmas, her boss had cut her hours twice. He was probably only keeping her on because he felt bad letting her go.

As she pushed open the bedroom door, the long squeak of the hinges broke the silence. She stepped into the darkened space. The room was large, at least twice the size of the guest bedrooms. Her flashlight beam barely reached its outer walls.

She stepped farther into the room. To her right, an open doorway led into a bathroom. Farther down, a second door was ajar, likely leading to a closet. Were there boxes of old photo albums and scrapbooks in there? She moved in that direction.

As she reached for the door, a thump and scrape to her left sent her heart into her throat. She spun, swinging the light around until the beam landed on a window. A tree limb slid across the glass, making another scrape that confirmed what she’d heard.

A relieved breath slipped between her lips. It was only the wind. That was one bump in the night she could eliminate. As soon as some of the cash she’d inherited was available, she’d have a tree guy trim the limbs away from the house.

Before turning back to the closet, she directed the light in a slow arc, taking in the rest of the room. The flashlight’s beam fell across the bed. It wasn’t neatly made like the ones in the other six rooms. The top sheet and bedspread were wrapped together in a jumble. Was this where her grandmother had died? Had the room been untouched for the past seven months?

She stood unmoving, the flashlight’s beam frozen on the two pillows. They’d been tossed on top of one another, a slight indentation in the center where a head had probably compressed them. No, those hadn’t been like that for the past seven months. Someone had lain there recently.

The next instant, the door behind her sprang open, knocking her forward several feet. Heavy footsteps pounded behind her. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, and her feet left the floor. She released a scream, loud and long.

A hand clamped over her mouth, and her captor spoke in a deep, raspy whisper, his mouth at her ear. “You were warned not to come.”

Then he spun her in a half circle and turned her loose. She hit the floor with a thud. Pain shot through her left hip and shoulder. Retreating footsteps echoed through the room and gradually faded as the intruder fled into the hall and down the stairs.

She pushed herself to a seated position. Her phone had slipped from her grasp and slid across the floor, screen down, the narrow beam of light shining toward the ceiling.

After crawling to it, she snatched it up with shaking hands. She needed to call 911. First, she’d better lock the door. Before that, she should make sure she was alone in the room. Or maybe her safest option was to get out of the house and make the call outside.

She silenced her scrambled thoughts. She had to get out of there. As she dashed from the room and down the hall, the flashlight’s beam bounced in front of her. Only when she was locked safely inside her car would she make that call.

The events of the past minute or two had confirmed one thing.

Whoever had sent that warning note meant business.