Accused

PROLOGUE

When she opened her eyes, she did not know that her life would never be the same.

All she knew was that her body was shivering violently. She wrapped her arms but felt even colder, almost wet from the sea breeze. The French doors leading to the deck outside stood propped open, and the breeze billowed the sheer curtains. In the vague light, they looked like whitecaps of waves rolling ashore. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand: 3:45 A.M.

She got out of bed-the tile floor felt damp beneath her feet, as if it had rained in-and went over to shut the doors, but the scent of the sea lured her outside. She parted the curtains and stepped out onto the deck. The house stood on tall stilts like an eight-legged white flamingo perched among the sand dunes; the second-story deck overlooked the secluded stretch of Galveston beach and the Gulf of Mexico beyond. She walked to the far railing where she could see the last ripples of high tide dying out just feet from the house. She inhaled the sea and tasted the salt in the air. She often woke and came out here in these quiet hours when the moon offered the only light, when all color was washed out by the night, when her world was painted only in shades of gray.

She lived her life in shades of gray.

She gazed out at the twinkling lights of the offshore drilling platforms dotting the distant horizon; she liked to think they were the lights of Cancun. She had often imagined taking the yacht straight across the Gulf the seven hundred fifty miles to Cancun-and never returning. Maybe one day she would.

Maybe. One day.

The breeze blew her short nightgown tight against her lean body; the silk seemed to stick to her skin. She clutched herself again. It was early June, and the night temperature had not dipped below eighty, but she had still caught a chill. A big wave splashed ashore, and the sea spray hit her. She licked the wet from her lips then reached up and wiped her face; she could not see the dark streaks down her cheeks that her hands had left in their wake, but her face now felt even wetter. She touched her cheeks again then looked down at her hands. Her palms were shiny with a wetness that was dark in the moonlight, dark and wet like…

She turned and ran back inside. She fought her way through the curtains then slapped her hands against the wall until she found the light switch-the stark white bedroom was suddenly ablaze with incandescent light. The shades of gray were gone. Her world was now painted bright red: red on the white bed sheets… red footprints on the white tile floor leading from the bed out to the deck where she had stepped… red handprints on the white wall where she had searched for the light switch… red on the white curtains where she had fought through them… red on her white nightgown… and red on her. Bright red. Blood red. His blood. She stood drenched in his blood. And he lay on the bed with a knife in his chest.

Rebecca Fenney screamed.