Elena Flores had never been one to turn down work, whether that work be honest or just barely so. If it would put food in her sons' bellies and a roof over their heads, she'd do what needed doing, so long as it didn't land her behind bars.

At thirty-four, the woman had sacrificed a lot, but at least now things were on the up. She no longer needed to use her body the way she had when young; dancing had gotten her through her difficult times, those years when Tomás's father had left for university and cut off all contact (he'd been only nineteen—she no longer blamed him for his cold feet, though the hurt remained, flared and dulled whenever she thought of how disinterested he'd been in their son's life all these years), when her parents had kicked her out for her choice to strip instead of work some other menial job. She no longer knew how she'd made it through those early years, alone in a dilapidated apartment in a dangerous neighborhood, just her and Tomás and a neighbor woman who watched the boy while she made money the only steady way she knew she could at the time. Eduardo's father, he'd met her during that period of her life, found her through her work. And while Elena had been warned never to get involved with clientele, the man had been so insistent, so persuasive, so attractive . . . oh, he'd showered gifts on her, enabled her to move into a nicer, safer place, promised her everything only to leave her with nothing but another child. How ashamed she'd been, then, to have fallen twice for liars. It'd led her to trust no man, and though she'd had no lack of admirers over the years, Elena hadn't so much as gone out for coffee with any of them. Her boys were first, now. Had been since the moment of Eduardo's birth and would be until they were no longer within her walls.

In the decade that had passed since Eduardo's birth, Elena had toned down her persona, kept her lifestyle a little quieter. She'd taken on respectable work when she could find it, though she'd never fully given up dancing, not with the money it'd made; she'd just been careful to hide her nighttime activities from her sons.

She'd felt no shame in it then, and she felt no shame now, looking back, but she'd never wanted her sons to suffer for her decisions if she could help it.

Now, though—everything had begun to change. The moment they'd left New Orleans for Surette, Elena had felt the very air in her lungs lighten. She'd always believed herself something of a clairvoyant; her Mamá had told her just as her Abuela had told her. There'd been many moments in her youth that her family had made much of, had been certain were more than coincidence or imagination—when four-year-old Elena had insisted, night after night, that she'd been unable to sleep due to all the bright bubbles in her room, for example; or when seven-year-old Elena had been frightened for her mother to answer the phone every time it rang during the day only to eventually burst into tears when a family member had called to deliver the news that Tia Lola—her mother's younger sister—had died in a terrible accident; or when thirteen-year-old Elena had experienced continuous night terrors when a neighbor had moved in next door until, five weeks after they'd begun, they'd ended concurrent with the man's arrest for child exploitation and pornography. As she'd aged, the premonitions had lessened, the link to whatever "otherness" she'd tapped into weakened as it so often did when one grew into an adult (the supernatural had a preference for children and the child-like, or so Elena had been taught), so when she'd dreamt of this move, when she'd woken that particular morning with the clear and insistent understanding that the three of them were meant to be in Surette and nowhere else, that their lives would change in that town, she'd trusted her dreams, thanked the spirits unknown for reaching out to her once more, packed up the boys, and left.

Work had come easily enough in Surette, there being a strange touristy attraction about the place and therefore enough restaurants and gift shops to support that image. It was no New Orleans, obviously, but it brought in the sort of traveler who appreciated an "off-the-beaten-path" experience, who sought what could be perceived as an authentic southern charm. On the flip side, there were the rougher hole-in-the-wall locales, the bait-and-tackle shops, the Dollar General and cheap thrift shops that residents and those intent on a serious stay to camp or fish frequented. In other words, with all the comings and goings through Surette, there were plenty of businesses in need of extra hands, and Elena was pleased to find employment with a cleaning service, one hired by several of the larger historic houses in the old quarter of Surette to help in keeping up appearances, as the impressive structures and their interiors were often open to tours and frequently served as the backdrop in advertisements about the town.

The house outside of which Elena now stood—known as the St. James House—was stunning, a two-story box with a porch below and a balcony that ran the length of the floor above. Its railings and banisters consisted of ornate wrought iron connected to pillars that ran from the base of the house to its eaves, and narrow, rectangular windows lined both levels, massive black shutters running alongside of them. The front door sat a ways back, a presumptuous set of stairs leading up to it, and a pendant lamp could be seen glowing within the foyer to temper the dimness of the misty gray morning. Elena walked the stone path leading to the house, adjusting the apron she wore as part of her uniform. She'd been intrigued by this particular house since first coming across it two months earlier, when she'd arrived in Surette with her boys and done a little drive-around tour, but this was the first time she'd been the one tasked with cleaning it. Most of the other old buildings were in a stretch all next to one another, but this one was a little different; it pushed back into a grove of winding, gnarled cypress trees, necessitating a twenty-yard walk from the street.

The Louisiana April had ripened into a warm if not wet month, bringing with it consistent temperatures in the seventies and alarm bells to waken the perennials. Elena admired the lush white azaleas in bloom before the porch of the St. James house, their flowers like bunches of fragrant snow, and the ferns that had begun unfurling beneath them. On either side of the building were enormous magnolias, their black trunks twisting to hands to fingers efflorescent with pearly pink blossoms. In contrast with the deep emerald and shadow of the bayou beyond, the cream-painted, flower-enveloped house presented as a reflective jewel against a dark, velvety fabric. Whoever was responsible for gardening on the premises had done a fabulous job of furthering the contrast.

As stunning as the place was, though, or perhaps because of it, Elena began to quake ever so impercetibly as she neared the front steps. The early morning sun in its attempt to peek through the clouds did its best to cheer her, and by all means the visual before her should have been encouragement enough, yet some cautionary chord strummed within Elena's gut—an instinctive unease, though one entirely impractical. Had she not so recently dreamt of moving to Surette, she would have attributed her nerves to the lack of sleep she'd had after that awful midnight-knocking prank played on her and her boys (she'd been too shaken to do much more than toss and turn afterward), but as of late, Elena had begun to pay more attention to her intuition.

No time to consider it, though, she told herself as she reached the steps, her feet having kept their steady pace even while her thoughts had begun to second-guess themselves.

Up and onto the porch, to the door (whose full-length rectangular, etched-glass pane offered only an obscured view of what lay beyond) the woman moved, and without considering her conflicting sensations or the nearly audible whispered warnings carried on the gentle breeze, she rang the bell.

Within the interior of the building, a hollow, melancholy chime sounded, and quite suddenly the front door was pulled inward. Elena found herself face-to-face with an older woman, whose visage betrayed an obvious disgruntlement. "Cleaning lady?"

"Y-yes," Elena replied, thinking she should've been the one to speak first. She hastened to add, "I'm with Molly Maid. We have a nine o'clock—"

"Use the help entrance."

The woman began to turn away, to close the door, but Elena put out a hand to hold it open. "I'm sorry, what entrance? I don't know where—"

"Access off Marbury Court."

"Where's—"

Yanking the door further inward, startling Elena enough that she stumbled and stopped talking, the older woman for the first time actually regarded the younger with her wrinkle-rimmed, beetling eyes. Elena returned the scrutiny in full. This woman couldn't have been older than sixty, Elena thought, though an exact age was difficult to pin down due to her obviously dyed black hair and overt use of foundation. Her clothing was casual though stylish—on-trend jeans and a cotton tee—but the simple pearl studs and golden cross she wore revealed a refined and understated taste. Though her affect was haphazard, anxious, the older woman was attractive in a conventional sort of way, and she presented herself well; Elena couldn't help but feel a twinge of embarrassment at the uniform she'd been asked to wear. She'd never minded the ugly brown dress with its white collar and turned sleeves and apron—not before. Why did she feel different wearing it now? She couldn't say.

With a withering look, the older woman replied in drawn-out words, "Go back down Algernon, right there—" she waved a finger toward Elena's car, which was parked at some distance, "—and make a left at Marbury Court. Go all the way down until you come to the end, where you'll find a private road. It'll say St. James Access or something like that. It'll bring you to the side of the house. The help entrance. Do you understand?"

Rather than respond (afraid of what she might say if she did), Elena pressed her lips into a semblance of a smile and nodded before turning away and following the woman's instructions. How the hell was I supposed to know? Nobody told me about a service road, a side entrance, she ran through her mind as she hastened, her blood simmering within her limbs.

Within fifteen minutes, Elena stood outside the so-called "help entrance," which happened to be a mere several yards from the front of the house. There were a garage and small lot there, though, and Elena figured she'd been asked to move solely because that woman hadn't wanted anyone to see the Molly Maid car.

Trying to regain her former chipper disposition, Elena rang the bell at the side door and, lo and behold, the same woman answered, this time opening wide enough to admit entrance.

Elena closed the door behind her and found herself in a sort of mud room, a space nearly the size of her entire living room, dining room, and kitchen combined, taken up with multiple laundry and drying machines, shelving full of linens and cleaning supplies, random foodstuffs, and a host of boxes and potentially hoarder-esque materials. The woman had begun talking to her the moment she'd stepped inside, barking orders about what needed doing, and so Elena followed, watching where she stepped in order to avoid the multiple bowls of cat food and water and piles of junk that littered the floor.

"There's going to be a wedding party photographing here this Saturday," the woman was saying, "so I'll need you to get those windows spotless, dust and vacuum everything, you know, just to make sure it's all beyond complaint. Down here, the kitchen will definitely need a top-to-bottom scrub, and so will the bathrooms—two on this floor; you can ignore the ones up top. Forget the entire upper story, actually. I'd also like the curtains taken down and washed and ironed, and polish the stair rails. These framed pictures on the underside of the stairs need a dusting, too—don't forget that. People love to get photographs by these old things. Oh, and the front porch and back deck absolutely need to be swept and the furniture wiped down."

Elena had allowed the woman to ramble, kept a few paces behind as they'd moved through a narrow, dim hallway and into an expansive foyer, an enormous space covered walls-and-cathedral-ceiling in beadboard, with dark wood floors laid with plush Persian rugs. The front door opened into this area, and the rectangular windows seen from outside poured sunlight into it. The ceiling rose all the way to the top level until one reached the halfway point in the room and a stairway rose up to the second floor inner balcony, where the bedrooms presumably nestled. Beyond that staircase and beneath the second floor were the kitchens and sitting rooms, Elena guessed. It was a beautiful building, more luxurious inside than the outer charm had suggested.

"I have to go into town to pick up some amenities and do a little grocery shopping," the woman was saying, "so if you have any questions, you can ask my son. He's out back taking care of the pool right now."

The woman grabbed a handbag off a bench in the foyer and began to rummage through it. "Now where the hell are my keys?" She looked up in frustration, heaved a sigh at nothing in particular, then spun away from Elena, hurried past the stairs, calling out someone's name—something starting with a "T," it sounded like. She heard a door open and close followed by a loud conversation somewhere beyond the walls of the house. Momentarily alone, she breathed deeply, took in the smell of the old building, allowed the momentary lull to wash the anxiety from her. That woman was high-strung, and Elena didn't particularly vibe with that sort of energy. She'd been pleased to hear the woman was leaving. Several moments passed while she stood there a bit uncertain—was she expected to wait for this woman to return? or was she supposed to get started?—and just when Elena had made up her mind to head back to the mud room for cleaning supplies, she heard a door slam and arguing voices toward the back of the house draw nearer until out from under the stairs returned the woman and a man, presumably her son.

Upon spotting Elena, the man immediately cut off whatever he'd been about to say, ending what had obviously been a heated conversation.

"Everything you need is back where you were let in," the woman carried on, speaking to Elena as if they'd never left off. "My phone number is there on the table, on that notepad. Call me if you have questions." She brushed past Elena toward the door before calling over her shoulder, "Oh, and my name. Glory. Glory St. James. I'll be back long before you're finished, I'm sure."

Without another word, Glory was off through the front door, and Elena found herself alone with the young man, who couldn't have been too much younger than she, though a world of maturity separated them.

"I'm Trent," the young man said curtly, offering his hand and giving her pause. "If—if you need anything."

Elena narrowed her eyes but accepted the shake in spite of her disinterest in touching him. There was something about the man's rugged youthfulness, his lethargic demeanor that put her off. "Elena. Thanks." She made to part once more, but Trent's next words stopped her.

"You have kids?"

Elena wasn't sure she'd heard correctly and slowly turned back. "Excuse me?"

"Do you have kids? Young ones?"

Perplexed, the woman tried to tease out this man's purpose in asking her, but a quick moment convinced her there was no harm in answering. "Sons. Two of them. Seventeen and ten."

Trent's pale face hovered severely beneath his thick eyebrows. He didn't respond at all, instead just offered a weak smile and walked back in the direction he'd come, leaving Elena utterly confused and agitated.