The Accused by Jana DeLeon Page A

after his conversation with William trying to find more-concrete information on Trenton Purcell and Ophelia LeBeau, but there was little to find. That didn’t surprise him much in Ophelia’s case. She was an heiress and, according to William, had come into millions when her parents passed. But she was a small-town bayou heiress with parents who’d felt no compulsion to be in the limelight of the city or on the front of newspapers hosting some charity event. Based on what he could find, they’d lived a quiet, simple life in a mansion on the bayou and had raised their daughter to live the same way.
    Which she’d managed nicely until Trenton Purcell entered her life.
    Purcell had been even more of an enigma. Despite extensive searching, Carter had been unable to trace the man back to his birthplace, his parents, previous employment or even a driver’s license. All of which made career cops very suspicious.
    He’d bet anything he owned that Trenton Purcell was living under an assumed name and identity in Calais, but he had no proof. And at this point, he couldn’t see what difference it would make, except to further exasperate people who’d liked Ophelia and warned her off marrying the man.
    He locked the sheriff’s department and ran to his truck, but he was still soaked by the time he jumped inside. It was really coming down out there. He started down Main Street, but when he got to the intersection at the edge of town, he stopped in the middle of the street. His current residence—a cabin he’d inherited from his grandfather—was to the left, near his mother’s house. To the right was the lonely road that led to the LeBeau estate.
    He had no obligation to check on Alaina. In fact, she’d probably resent the intrusion more than appreciate it, as their earlier parting hadn’t exactly been without conflict. But something tugged at him.
    She’s a beautiful woman who’s all alone.
    That much was true, and he could go straight home and try to convince himself that that was all that concerned him. But he’d given up lying years ago—even to himself.
    Sighing, he turned the steering wheel to the right. He’d just make a quick stop—only long enough to ensure she was getting on all right in the storm. Then he’d head home for a big bowl of his mother’s vegetable soup, heated up in his microwave, and a cold beer.
    A visual of Alaina LeBeau climbing the stairwell flashed across his mind. The way her jeans clung to her perfectly toned rear. The way her breasts strained against the cotton blouse as she turned to look back at him.
    He blew out a breath.
    Maybe two beers were in order. Two beers and a cold shower.
    * * *
    A MOS SLIPPED OUT the front door and into the storm before Alaina found her voice. Not that it mattered. What the hell did you say to follow up a statement like that? If Amos believed her mother was going to show up twenty-five years post-death and speak to her, he was either crazy or suffering from some sort of aging disease.
    She locked the door and hurried back to the laundry room to find the flashlights while the lights still worked. Even entombed in the huge house, she could hear the storm intensifying. The rumbles of thunder were closer together than before, and she could hear the plinking sound of heavy drops of rain against the northern glass in the kitchen area. It was time to wrap up her day and lock herself up in the bedroom for the night.
    The cabinet door stuck a little and she had to give it a harder tug, then she blew out a breath of relief when the flashlights were right where Amos indicated and in working order. She had a penlight on her key chain, but hadn’t even thought to bring anything larger with her. Decades of city living were a definite disadvantage.
    She grabbed two of the flashlights and placed them on top of the sheets she’d been folding earlier. Her pistol lay silent and forgotten on the sheets and she quickly put it back in her waistband. The cold metal pressing