Skeleton's Key (Delta Crossroads Trilogy, Book 2) Read Online Free

the world.
    During the ride from Jackson, she was grateful for the traffic’s leisurely pace. It gave her plenty of time to soak up her surroundings. The grass was a deeper shade of green, lush beneath the bright sun. Large farms, many of them old, dotted the landscape, but the ramshackle places with rotting roofs and sad looking lawns were just as prevalent. Poverty and grandeur interwoven into the state’s fabric.
    She reached the outskirts of Roselea right on time and wistfully turned south instead of driving straight into town. There would be plenty of time to explore its history after she got settled. Anticipation began to swirl in her stomach as she threaded her way through the countryside, squinting to read the mailbox addresses and trying to keep her heart from taking permanent residence in her throat.
    And then she saw it: 15 White Creek Road. The mailbox was a simple plastic affair–green with white letters. A wooden rail fence sat on each side of the dirt drive marking the entrance to the property. Ironwood sat back off the road more than a hundred feet, and a hulking live oak that had taken up residence in the front yard hid Dani’s initial view of the house.
    Ducking her head to see beneath the oak’s drooping branches, Dani turned into the drive. Glimpses of dirty white railing partially hidden by rosebushes had her clenching the steering wheel with anticipation. The path wound slightly to the left, around the big tree, and Ironwood emerged.
    Pictures hadn’t done her justice. The mansion’s wooded exterior was gray and faded, the balconies sagging dangerously in places. Its four front columns were cracked, its iron railings rusting, and the widow’s peak had lost part of its outboards.
    But she was still beautiful, like a weathered grandmother who’d seen more of life than most could comprehend. The grand home’s front was a five bay structure, its centerpiece a two-story portico with four perfectly spaced Greek pillars. An exquisite bracketed cornice marked the roofline, and while several of the Italianate brackets were missing, their craftsmanship was still visible on the remaining pieces. Standing guard over the house was a widow’s walk with a balcony that circled a small cupola. Additional porticos marked the east and west sides of the house.
    Dani closed her eyes and imagined the house’s mistress standing on the walk, waiting for her son to come home from the Civil War. Her summer dress would be lightweight, but hoops and underskirts would have added several pounds to her frame. Her hair might have hung in pin curls or been done up in a more stately but ornate knot. A delicate white handkerchief etched with precise stitching – probably flowers – would be crushed in her hand as she prayed for her son’s safe return from the war.
    That son would have been John James Laurent, and he did return from the war. He and his father kept Ironwood afloat during the Reconstruction, and the plantation employed free blacks for decades, running a modest but successful cotton crop until sometime during the Great Depression. Ironwood had been slowly sinking into quiet despair since. The once grand home was no more than a shadow of its former glory.
    Moisture dripped onto Dani’s lip. She flushed, hastily wiping the tears away. Old homes had always held a special power over her, but the plantations were a force she couldn’t explain. It was as if the last remnants of a forgotten way of life desperately grasped for survival. For someone to remember. To save them.
    She would save Ironwood .
    She wiped her face once again and checked her reflection. Her fair Irish skin was no longer pink, but her hair was still flat from the humidity. Quickly, she dug a brush out of her purse, dragged it through her hair, and pulled it into a loose ponytail. That would have to do.
    An Adams County Sheriff’s cruiser was parked in the winding drive in front of what was obviously the carriage house. Single story, moderately