âSheriffâs department!â
At his shout, the figure scrambled to the ground, rolling and preparing to run.
Eric stepped closer and pinned the suspect with the flashlight beam.
Then the summer night, the achingly familiar sights and sounds pressing in around him and a vision from his past seized him in a moment of déjà vu that rooted him to the spot. Carrinne Wilmington, seventeen years older but somehow exactly the same, dressed from head to toe in burglar black, stared at him, her face a mask of fear and shock.
Eric instinctively adjusted the flashlightâs glare out of her eyes.
âEric?â Carrinne squinted. âWhat are you doing here?â
Dear Reader,
Iâve been asked repeatedly where I find the ideas for my stories. And as many writers have said before me, itâs not so much that I find my stories and characters, as they find me.
My young family has changed a great deal over the past decade, as my husband and I established our careers and my son raced through preschool and kindergarten. Looking back, itâs important to remember the heartache and struggles weâve endured. The mistakes and the false starts that showed us what was truly important, and what was best left behind. The decisions that helped us grow into the happy family we are today.
Decisions are powerful things. Thatâs the theme woven into The Unknown Daughter. Itâs through our most difficult choices that we discover who we are and what we believe. I find the process of making life-changing decisions fascinating. Sometimes you succeed. Sometimes you fail. But facing the next challenge, when everything within is screaming at you to run the other way, is the very essence of living.
I wish for you the courage and the determination you need to grow into all that you dream youâll be. And Iâd love to hear your thoughts on Carrinne and Ericâs story. Visit me at my author Web site, www.annawrites.com, and register for one of my contests.
Sincerely,
Anna DeStefano
To my father, Walton, whose passing taught me to cherish all of life, both the ups and the downs.
To my mother, Jane, and her love for the written word, who never doubted that my name would one day share space with the countless others on her bookshelves.
To my son, Jimmy, who is a daily reminder of the perfection of Godâs miracles.
To my husband, Andrew, who has always wanted for me every dream I could possibly dream.
And to my critique partners, Tanya, Rachelle, Dorene, Anna A. and Missy and the countless friends Iâve made along my writing journey.
All thatâs true in this story, all that comes from my heart wouldnât have been possible without the blessing of your love.
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
CARRINNE WILMINGTON glared through the windshield of her rented Dodge at the stately south Georgia mansion that had been her familyâs home for as long as theyâd kept records in these parts. Ancient oak trees flanked the house, their tops dancing in the balmy July breeze. The moon skimmed a cloud-churned sky, creating midnight shadows that shifted in the changing light.
She fought the urge to peel away from the curb, to keep driving until she reached the airstrip just outside of Oakwood and caught the next flight back to New York. Turning off the ignition, she glanced down at herself, then dropped her head to the steering wheel.
She was a B-movie cliché.
Her city clothes, black on black on black, had seemed a logical choice when sheâd left the roadside motel on the outskirts of town. She was sneaking back in the dead of night, for heavenâs sake. She needed invisibility, anonymity.
With a groan, she sat back. What she needed was to have her head examined. Who cared what she was wearing, when she was about to walk back into the world that had nearly destroyed her?
Her eyes traveled to the dormer windows her grandfather slept behind. Controlling yet distant, Oliver Wilmington had been the only family sheâd ever known after her mother had died giving her life, and heâd let her down when sheâd needed him the most. Now, seventeen years later, he couldnât know she was back. No one could. If she was lucky and found what sheâd come for, sheâd be out of here and back in New York by tomorrow afternoon.
Get on with it, Carrinne.
She pushed open the door and slid out, gritting her teeth against the sick taste of fear.
âGet in, find Momâs diary, then get out,â she whispered, creeping through the dimness toward the gray brick house. The diary had to be in the attic, inside the trunk that held her motherâs things. âForget about everything else.â
But the past shimmered in every shadow as she skirted landscaped shrubs and flowerbeds that were exactly where they had always been. She turned the corner toward the back terrace and stumbled to a halt at the base of an enormous cypress tree, her childhood refuge where sheâd read fairy tales and dreamed girlish dreams.