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if she’d been unable to keep it from falling into decay—which said a lot about the kind of woman she’d been.
    Kendall looked down and realized she was holding something. The marvelous old diary she had discovered in the attic one day when Amelia had asked her to bring down an envelope of papers. She had set the diary by Amelia’s bed, thinking she would read it later, but somehow she’d never gotten around to it. Until today.
    Today, when all she had intended to do was get in, get her things and get out, she had found herself picking it up.
    And it was fascinating. It had been written by a woman living in the house during the Civil War, and once she had gotten into it, Kendall had found herself deeply involved. She had marveled that she was holding a book that went back over a hundred and fifty years, that she was reading words written that long ago. Words describing the thoughts of someone living in the midst of a horrible war that tore families apart. Words about survival. There were little tidbits of day-to-day life in the diary, and there were also hopes and dreams for the future.
    The diary was what had kept her out here long after she should have gone home, and now the heirs were arriving.
    She quickly stuck the diary into her backpack.
    It didn’t belong to her. It belonged to the men who were Amelia’s only living relatives.
    But she had to finish reading it. She wouldn’t keep it, only borrow it until she’d read all the way to the end. She would give it back as soon as she was done. For now, she had to figure out how she was going to deal with the plantation’s new owners.
    Kendall thought about hiding. About slipping out the back. But they would probably notice her car, parked around by the stables, before she could get to it. No. Better just to face the music of being here, where she supposed she shouldn’t be, not without their permission.
    She would apologize for trespassing, explain that she’d only come to get her things, then get the hell out.
    She’d heard Jeremy Flynn on the radio the other day, talking about raising money to help the children who’d lost their families in the hurricane. He was clearly a mover and a shaker, and he talked sense. She had to admit that she had liked him on the radio.
    The lawyer had told her that there were three brothers, and that they ran a private investigation agency. Snapping pictures of married men having affairs and spying on babysitters, no doubt.
    The French Quarter was a pretty close-knit group, and she’d heard that another one of the brothers was a nice guy and a hell of a guitarist.
    The third brother, though…
    A real hard-ass, she’d heard. Military, then FBI.
    He’d probably have her arrested for trespassing.
    The truth was, they owed her some genuine gratitude. She was the one who had been there for Amelia. And not for any personal gain. She had taken to spending almost all her time out here, because Amelia had been afraid. Amelia had spent her life in the old place, but in the last few months she’d become convinced that strange things were going on around her, that long-gone spirits from centuries past were present day and night—in the house and in her dreams. Once upon a time, a violent tragedy had played itself out on the grounds of the old plantation. As death neared for Amelia, she seemed to think her ancestors were creeping up on her, reaching for her with bony fingers from their graves.
    And yet, in the hours before her death, she had seemed so peaceful. Glad to see the ghosts, as if they were family members who loved her and had come to take her home.
    I was creeped-out and scared silly half the time I was here, Kendall thought, but I stayed because I cared about Amelia. Where were these guys when she could have used some real family around her? How could they have been totally unaware of the existence of a member of their own family?
    That was a question that would have to wait for another day. The most important thing right