The boy stood at the edge of the woods bordering Pecan Hill, staring at the great house. Despite its size, only a couple of lights glowed behind the windows. It was late, and apparently everyone had gone to bed.
He knew the woman who owned the mansion was incredibly wealthy, which meant there were probably plenty of valuable things inside. The place almost certainly had an alarm system, but some old antebellum homes had never been wired well. He was willing to take the chance.
He hadn't eaten in two days.
He needed the money.
Besides, someone with that much wealth could afford to lose a few things. Maybe, he thought bitterly, she wouldn't even notice.
In silence, he crossed the broad lawn, weaving through flower beds and carefully manicured landscaping. The mansion remained silent. No movement behind the windows. No voices. No sign that anyone was awake.
On silent feet, he climbed the front steps and moved to the right side of the house. He passed one set of French doors and stopped at the second.
It didn't look like much of a challenge.
With his right hand, he removed a small pocketknife and slipped the blade into the latch. He worked with patience, applying just enough pressure.
Twenty seconds later, he heard a faint click.
The door was unlocked.
He eased it open a few inches and waited.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No alarm.
He listened for nearly a full minute before opening the door wide enough to slip inside.
The room beyond was dark and perfectly still.
He allowed himself a faint smile. He was in, and he looked around the room.
It was obviously a library. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with books that looked impossibly old. Some were probably worth a fortune, but he had no idea which ones. Books were too difficult to fence anyway, so he left them alone.
His attention shifted to the fireplace.
Several bronze statues and other decorative pieces rested on the mantel. Even in the dim light, they looked expensive. A pawn shop in Savannah would probably pay good money for any one of them.
Carefully, he lifted one from the mantel and slipped it into the small leather bag slung over his shoulder. Then he took another.
He scanned the room again.
A large mahogany desk stood near one of the windows.
He smiled to himself.
That's where people keep the good stuff.
He expected the drawers to be locked. Most people locked their desks, especially in a house like this. But when he tugged on the first drawer, it slid open without resistance.
Unlocked.
He frowned.
It was almost as if whoever lived here never worried about thieves.
Inside, he found nothing but stationery, pens, and a few neatly organized papers. He closed the drawer and tried another.
His eyes widened.
There was cash. Not a few bills—a stack of them. Twenties. Fifties. Even a couple of hundreds.
He swallowed hard.
There had to be at least five hundred dollars there. Maybe closer to a thousand. He resisted the temptation to count it. There would be time for that later.
He shoved the money into his bag and zipped it closed. His luck had held. Now all he had to do was walk back out of the house. With this much money, he could eat for weeks.
He took a few cautious steps back toward the French doors.
Then he realized he wasn't alone.
Someone was standing in one of the far corners of the room deep in the shadows.
The figure never moved. It simply watched him.
Fear surged through him.
"If you like," the shadow said in a calm, feminine voice, "there's a dining room just beyond this one. You'll find some very expensive silverware there. You're welcome to take that as well."
His heart nearly stopped. He had been caught.
"Look, lady," he stammered, "I'm...I'm sorry. Just let me go."
"Why should I do that?" she asked, her voice as calm as before.
"I didn't want to cause you any trouble. I just needed...something. Anything I could sell."
"Oh?"
There was almost amusement in her voice.
"And the cash you took from my desk? Were you planning to sell that as well?"
He swallowed.
"No...I mean...I need the cash."
"And why," she asked gently, "do you need the cash? Drugs?"
He looked down.
"I haven't eaten in a couple of days."
She was silent for a moment.
"I see."
"Lady, I don't want to hurt you."
One eyebrow rose.
"Oh? Now you're threatening me?"
His head snapped up.
"No! No, that's not what I meant. I don't hurt people. I swear. I just...needed money."
The silence stretched.
She let him stand there, trapped with his own fear. Then she stepped out of the shadows.
He stared.
She was young. Beautiful. Long dark hair framed an elegant face, and her extraordinary blue eyes seemed almost to glow in the darkness.
"How long has it been since you last ate?" she asked.
He frowned, trying to remember.
"What day is this?"
"Tuesday."
"I think...Saturday night," he said, unsure.
She nodded thoughtfully.
"And where are you living?"
"Mostly on the street."
"I see," she said with a cool understanding.
"How did you get all the way out here? Pecan Hill is quite a distance from Savannah."
"I hitched a ride."
"And why did you choose my house?"
He shrugged weakly.
"Everybody says you're rich."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"That much is true. I am very rich."
She folded her hands before her.
"Did they tell you anything else about me?"
He glanced toward the French doors, silently measuring the distance. For just a second, he wondered if he could make it.
"Some people said..." He hesitated, not wanting to say it out loud.
"Yes?" she pressed him.
"...that you could be dangerous."
Her smile widened ever so slightly.
"Some people are correct," she confirmed.
He studied her carefully. She had no gun. No knife.
Nothing.
She wasn't armed.
"Listen," he said quietly. "I really need to leave."
He threw the leather bag across the room.
The bronze statues clattered loudly as they struck the hardwood floor.
Then he lunged for the French doors. He stopped so suddenly he almost fell.
She was standing directly in front of them.
A heartbeat earlier she had been across the room. Now she blocked the only way out.
His mouth fell open.
"How...?"
She smiled.
"I can be very fast."
"Please..." he whispered. "I don't want to go to jail."
She tilted her head.
"At least they'd feed you there."
"Yes...but..."
He lowered his eyes.
"My old man..."
"Your father?" she asked.
He nodded.
"He'll beat me."
"He has before?"
"Lots of times."
"And your mother?"
The answer came so quietly she almost missed it.
"She died a couple of years ago."
"What happened?"
"Overdose."
For the first time, genuine sadness crossed the woman's face.
"I see. That can be hard to accept."
She was silent for several moments.
"So, your mother died of an overdose."
He nodded.
"And your father beats you."
Another nod.
"Is that your whole world?"
He looked away.
"Yeah."
"That's why you live on the streets."
"If he's drunk..."
His voice caught.
"...he hits. I am safer on my own, on the streets."
She studied him for a long moment.
Then she nodded once.
"I think I understand."
"So, young man," she said, "what is your name?"
He hesitated.
"Tom."
"Tom," she repeated.
She studied him for a moment.
"I assume that means your name is Thomas."
"Well...yeah. That's what they named me."
"And your last name?"
He didn't want to tell her.
As she continued to look at him with those impossibly blue eyes, he felt trapped. Lying somehow seemed pointless. She was looking straight into his soul.
"Kelly. Thomas Kelly."
She nodded.
"Very well, Thomas Kelly. I can offer you three choices."
He looked. He was confused.
"Three choices?"
"Yes," she affirmed.
"What are they?"
He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.
"The first choice is that I keep you here while I call the police. You go to jail. Your father beats you afterward, and who knows what else happens."
He grimaced. He definitely didn't like that one.
"And the second?"
"I can kill you."
He stared at her. She said it so matter-of-factly that it took a moment to register.
"I don't see a gun," he stated, looking at her hands.
She smiled.
"I never use a gun. I have never needed one."
Something inside him told him she wasn't bluffing. Behind that smile, the beauty, and those piercing blue eyes, there was something incredibly deadly. Something horrific. Like facing a cobra eye to eye. If she decided he was going to die tonight...
...he was going to die.
He swallowed.
"And the third choice?"
"The third choice is that you come with me to the kitchen..."
She smiled with a little warmth.
"...and I feed you."
His eyes dropped to the floor. He had been stealing her stuff, her money, and she would feed him. The thought seemed to make him embarrassed at what he had done.
"You'd...feed me?"
"Yes."
She paused.
"How old are you, Thomas?"
"Fifteen."
"Ah."
She nodded, those blue eyes still boring into his heart.
"I really don't like killing people who are fifteen. I am not saying I haven't, but I was much younger then, and they were very bad people even at that age."
He couldn't tell whether she was joking. And, somehow, that was even more frightening.
She turned toward the hallway.
"Come with me."
She motioned for him to follow and glanced back over her shoulder.
"And don't try to run."
He looked toward the French doors.
"You won't make it beyond them. And then I shall kill you."
Again, he believed her. Even though what she had said was wild, beyond logic, just about insane, he felt like every word had been absolutely true. He was not about to test them.
He still couldn't understand how she had crossed the library in the blink of an eye.
She walked into the hallway.
He watched her for a moment.
She moved with remarkable grace—her back straight, her shoulders relaxed, every step perfectly balanced. She didn't simply walk; she seemed to glide. For a fleeting moment he wondered if she had once been a ballet dancer.
Strange thoughts to be having, he told himself.
He looked back at the leather bag lying on the library floor. The stolen statues rattled softly where they had come to rest.
He left it where it was.
Not knowing what else to do, Thomas Kelly followed the mysterious woman down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The woman opened the refrigerator in what had to be the most beautiful kitchen Thomas had ever seen. The polished wood cabinets, marble countertops, and gleaming copper cookware made it look more like a magazine photograph than a place where people actually lived.
She peered inside for a moment before pulling out several items.
"These are only cold cuts," she said, "but I can make you a sandwich."
"That'd be great."
"Would you like milk? I have whole milk. I think there's apple juice as well."
She hesitated.
"I'm sorry, but I don't really eat this sort of food. It's for the others who live here."
Thomas frowned.
Didn't she eat the food in her own refrigerator?
That was an odd thing to say.
She laid everything on the counter—Italian bread, sliced ham, Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and a jar of mayonnaise.
His stomach gave a loud growl.
His eyes locked onto the food.
"Anything like that would be wonderful."
She smiled.
"Give me just a moment. I don't usually prepare food anymore, so you'll have to be patient. I think I can manage a sandwich."
Her hands moved with remarkable precision. Every motion was graceful, almost elegant. Even making a simple sandwich, she seemed completely at ease.
Thomas watched her.
At fifteen, he'd long since begun noticing girls.
Women.
He had never seen one this beautiful.
He wished he were older.
If she wasn't married...
He caught himself.
That was ridiculous.
She smiled without looking up.
"So," she said as she spread the mayonnaise, "what's it like being fifteen and living on the streets?"
"It's hard."
He shrugged.
"There's always somebody looking to rob you. Or beat you up."
He hesitated.
"Sometimes they want to do worse."
She nodded.
"I know. I've met a few."
Again, Thomas found himself puzzled.
How had this wealthy woman from an old mansion met people like that?
The sandwich was finished.
She placed it on a China plate in front of him.
"Did you wash your hands?"
He looked at her.
"No."
She pointed toward the sink.
"Please."
Feeling oddly like a little boy being corrected by his mother, Thomas walked over, washed his hands thoroughly, and returned.
"Milk or apple juice?"
"Milk, please."
She poured a glass into a crystal and placed it beside the sandwich.
"There."
She smiled.
"That's a good start. At least you'll have something in your stomach."
Thomas stared at the food for a moment before looking back at her.
"When I'm finished..."
"...are you going to call the police?"
She smiled.
"No. You might say I have a soft spot for hard cases."
He looked uncertain.
"Here's my proposition."
He waited.
"You may stay here tonight. I'll give you a comfortable bedroom. You could certainly use a hot shower."
She looked him over.
"And some clean clothes."
She smiled apologetically.
"I don't believe I have anything that will fit you, so I'll have someone pick up a few things in the morning."
"So..."
He looked confused.
"You're keeping me here?"
"I'm feeding you, and you'll spend the night. Then if, tomorrow morning, you decide you'd rather go back to living on the streets..."
She shrugged.
"...you're free to leave."
"Then..."
He looked at her carefully.
"You're not going to kill me if I leave?"
"Tomorrow? No. Tonight?"
She gave him a very serious look.
"I wouldn't recommend it."
He believed every word.
"Okay," he said quietly.
"I'll stay until morning."
She nodded.
"And if I stay after that? What are you going to do with me?"
"Oh," she said lightly, "I'm sure I'll think of something."
She paused.
"Unless, of course, you'd rather go back to your father."
His answer was immediate.
"No. He'll kill me one of these days."
She nodded slowly as if she understood.
"Then I think you're safer here."
Thomas couldn't help himself.
He laughed.
She looked at him in curiosity.
"What's so amusing?"
"Well..."
He smiled despite himself.
"At home, I have a father who might kill me."
He looked at her.
"And here I have a woman who keeps telling me she might kill me."
He chuckled.
"Apparently, I'm not long for this world."
For the first time that evening, Bedelia laughed aloud.
"I suppose that does put you in an awkward position."
Then her expression softened.
"But trust me. I think I can figure something out."
He tilted his head.
"Like what?"
She smiled.
"I've been looking for someone to help around the house."
"I have a couple who work for me," she said. "The Dudleys. Sarah and Cooper."
She took a sip of her wine before continuing.
"Unfortunately, Cooper isn't well. He still does what he can around the grounds, but he could use some help."
She looked directly at Thomas.
"Would you be interested?"
He simply stared at her. He had come into this house as a thief. Instead of calling the police—or killing him, if she had been serious—she had fed him. Now she was offering him a job. For a moment he wondered if he had fallen asleep somewhere and this was all a dream.
"I'm only fifteen," he said. "I don't think I can legally work."
She thought for a moment.
"I'll obtain your father's permission."
Thomas shook his head immediately.
"Oh, no. He'll never allow it."
His face tightened.
"He's a son of a..."
He stopped himself.
"...he isn't a very nice man."
Bedelia nodded.
"Even the worst of men can be persuaded."
Her tone was so calm that Thomas had no idea what she meant. And it was probably just as well that he didn't. He looked down at the sandwich for a moment before answering.
"Yeah."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"I'd like that."
"Good."
"The Dudleys don't live here in the main house. I restored one of the old slave quarters on the property. They occupy part of it, but there are several empty rooms."
She smiled.
"You may have one of them."
"It's a comfortable bedroom with its own bathroom."
"And, of course, you'll take your meals here in the main house. That's what the Dudleys do."
She gestured toward the refrigerator.
"Which is why I keep food."
Thomas looked at her curiously again.
"You say the strangest things."
A broad smile spread across Bedelia's face.
"Yes," she said. "I suppose I do."
"Oh," Bedelia said, as though she had just remembered something, "I should also tell you that I have a few long-term house guests."
He looked at her.
"One of them is a boy about your age. His name is Noah. I suspect the two of you will get along rather well."
"He lives here?"
"Yes. He and his mother, Catherine, have been staying with me for some time."
She smiled thinking of the boy.
"Noah is exceptionally intelligent."
She paused.
"But he sometimes finds it difficult to communicate with the rest of the world."
Thomas nodded.
"I understand. We had kids in school like that."
"Do they live in the old slave cottage, too?"
"Oh, no. They're guests. I wouldn't put guests out there. Although Catherine has been helping around the house. She assists Sarah Dudley whenever she can."
She looked toward the back of the house.
"Sarah is in much better health than her husband, Cooper."
Her smile softened.
"But they're both getting on in years."
Thomas nodded.
"I get it."
After he finished eating, Bedelia led him into the main hallway.
As she placed one foot on the staircase, she stopped.
"Oh, dear."
She turned to face him.
"I've just realized something."
"What?"
"I know your name. But you don't know mine."
He smiled.
"I know you're Miss Dubois."
She laughed softly; he made it sound so formal.
"That's true. I'm Bedelia Marie Dubois. I was born just outside of New Orleans."
His eyes brightened.
"I'd like to go there someday."
"And perhaps," she said with a smile, "one day you will."
She glanced up the staircase.
"But tonight, I believe it's time for you to clean up and get some sleep."
He yawned.
"Yeah. It probably is."
He studied her.
"You don't look tired."
She smiled, but her eyes held a strange look.
"No. I've always been something of a night owl."
She led him upstairs, showed him a comfortable bedroom, the adjoining bathroom, fresh towels, soap, and shampoo.
"I'll see you in the morning," she said. "Sleep well."
She started toward the door, then looked back over her shoulder.
"Oh..." she said as an afterthought.
"Please don't try to leave during the night. I would hate to have to kill you after we've gotten along so well."
Thomas laughed.
"So, you're still saying that?"
"Yes."
She smiled sweetly while leaving.
"I am."
She closed the door behind her.
Thomas stood there listening to her footsteps disappear down the hallway. He laughed again. But deep in the back of his mind, he still wasn't entirely certain she had been joking. Despite her kindness, something about her still felt dangerous.
The next morning, Thomas awoke, his eyes fighting off the fog of sleep.
For a few moments he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling. Then he remembered where he was. He looked around the room.
Compared to the streets—and even compared to his father's house—it seemed unbelievably luxurious. The bed was softer than anything he had ever slept in. He ran his hand across the sheets and wondered if he could stay there forever.
Then another sensation reached him.
Food!
The unmistakable aroma of bacon drifted all the way upstairs. His stomach immediately reminded him how hungry he still was.
He climbed out of bed, pulled on the same clothes he'd worn the night before—they definitely needed washing, but they were all he owned—and slipped on his shoes.
Following the smell, he made his way downstairs. Two women were busy in the kitchen. One was elderly. The other considerably younger.
Sarah and Catherine, he guessed.
The younger woman smiled.
"Good morning."
"Good morning," he replied, then added, "Miss Dubois said I could stay the night."
She laughed softly.
"Yes. We've all heard."
Thomas felt a knot form in his stomach.
Had she also told them why I was here?
The older woman looked at him. There was a hint of caution in her expression.
He knew that she knew all about him. Bedelia had told them everything.
Catherine pointed toward the stove.
"I have bacon and eggs cooking. There'll be toast in another minute. And Sarah has potatoes almost ready."
She smiled warmly.
"Do you like orange juice? We have some in the refrigerator. If not, we have apple juice or milk."
Thomas almost couldn't believe what he was hearing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a breakfast like that.
"Yes, ma'am. I'd love some."
Sarah turned toward him.
"I understand Bedelia has offered you work. Helping my husband, Cooper."
"Yes. If you'll have me."
She studied him.
"Are you willing to work?"
"Oh, yes. I'll do anything."
A faint smile crossed her face.
"Really? You won't run off with the silver?"
Catherine immediately shot her a look.
"Sarah. Leave the boy alone."
She turned back toward Thomas.
"It's been a long time since you were young."
Sarah sighed.
"I know. I didn't mean anything by it."
She looked apologetically at Thomas.
"I'm worried about Cooper. He hasn't been feeling very well this morning. If you can help him, I'd be grateful."
Thomas looked from one woman to the other.
A beautiful home.
A hot breakfast.
People asking if he would help instead of assuming the worst about him. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd had anything like this.
In reality, he never had.
Just then Bedelia walked into the kitchen.
She smiled, looking at Thomas.
"I see you're awake. And hungry."
Thomas grinned.
"Yes, Miss Dubois."
She laughed.
"Oh, no. Everyone here simply calls me Bedelia."
He shifted uncomfortably.
"I don't know..." He frowned. "It feels strange calling someone like you by your first name."
"It's perfectly all right, Thomas. I'm old enough to have stopped worrying about titles."
She smiled mischievously, then added.
"I have no desire to be addressed like some plantation owner's wife."
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
There she goes again, he thought. Another strange thing to say.
"All right..."
He smiled.
"If you're sure..." He looked at all three of the women. "I'll call you Bedelia."
She nodded.
"I'd like that."
"I do have one quick question for you, Thomas."
He looked up.
"Yes?"
"What is your father's name?"
"Roger." He hesitated.
Did she intend to call him?
Bedelia could see the dislike on Thomas' face.
"Roger Kelly."
She nodded.
"Very well. I need to check on something. I'll be right back."
She left the kitchen and walked to her office. Closing the door behind her, she took the telephone and dialed.
"Henry?"
"Bedelia!" Henry Agron replied warmly. "It's good to hear your voice. We haven't spoken in a while."
"No, we haven't."
"What can I do for you?"
"I need your people to look into someone."
"Certainly. Is there a problem?"
"A young man broke into my house last night."
There was a brief silence.
Then Henry asked quietly, "And...is he all right?"
Bedelia smiled to herself.
Apparently, Henry's first concern wasn't the burglary, but the condition of the burglar. He had no doubt about what she could do.
"He's fine. At the moment he's having breakfast."
Henry let out a relieved breath. At least the boy's body wasn't breakfast for a gator.
"That sounds more like you," he said with relief. "What do you need?"
"His name is Thomas Kelly. His father is Roger Kelly. Thomas tells me his father beats him. I'd like to know everything we can about the man. Police reports. Prior arrests. Child Protective Services. Everything. I also want you to speak with our attorneys. I'd like to see whether we can obtain legal guardianship. Or at least temporary protective custody. I'd like the boy to stay here."
"I understand," Henry said. "I'll have people start immediately. If the abuse has been reported before, we'll find it. And if it hasn't..."
He paused a second.
"We'll still find out who Roger Kelly is."
"Thank you."
Henry was about to hang up.
"Oh...and Henry."
"Yes?"
"I'd like you to handle this personally."
Another pause.
"I don't want to handle it myself."
Henry understood immediately. That would mean the death and disappearance of Roger Kelly.
"Yes, Bedelia. I know exactly what you mean. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."
"Thank you."
She gently replaced the receiver.
