Ask a Shadow to Dance by Linda George

…”
    “ Mrs . Westmoreland.”
    His expression changed to surprise.
    “My late husband was Mr. Westmoreland’s father. Andrew Westmoreland is, I regret to say, my stepson, which makes his behavior even more reprehensible. I’ve just arrived in Memphis from New Orleans. My father is ill and I was needed to help my aunt care for him.” She nodded toward Aunt Portia. “I did not expect my stepson to leave New Orleans when I did. In fact, I urged him to remain there and see to his father’s farming business, but he chose to follow me to Memphis. I’m hoping he will conclude whatever business he may have here and go back to New Orleans where he is needed to continue his father’s work.”
    It was easy to see Andrew didn’t like this pronouncement one bit. “There is a perfectly competent manager to see to the farming at home,” he said. “I came to Memphis to provide assistance and protection for my stepmother. I am grieved that she has chosen not to avail herself of my help.”
    The lieutenant cleared his throat noisily. “Well, now, Mrs. Westmoreland, I feel we should get back to the subject of the intruder. Your stepson has given me a completely different account of what occurred at your home. He says he arrived just as the intruder was leaving and that you were hysterical and distraught and mistakenly accused him of being the man who attacked you.”
    She should have expected such treachery from Andrew. “He is lying. There was no other intruder.” She faced Andrew squarely. “He threatened to harm my father or my aunt if I told anyone about his treatment of me. But I am not one to obey cowards who feel they must brutalize women.”
    Andrew’s face reddened. His mouth quivered with undisguised rage. “I’m afraid Mrs. Westmoreland is still overwrought from her experience. As I explained before, her attacker grabbed her from behind. The first face she saw was mine. It’s understandable that she was mistaken, but I am appalled at her insistence that I was that attacker. During the eight years she was married to my father, I never laid a hand on her in anger. Ask her. She’ll tell you.”
    She knew at that point she was defeated. She could not tell the Lieutenant how Andrew had come to her bedroom repeatedly during the eight years of her marriage, trying to force himself on her, because doing so would humiliate her beyond that which she had already suffered—and would alert Aunt Portia to the fact she’d been lying all those years about the treatment she’d received. Andrew had laid hands on her after his father’s funeral, claiming he’d inherited everything—including Lisette—but he knew she would never admit it to anyone. It would ruin her reputation in Memphis and any chances she had for social acceptability among Aunt Portia’s friends. She had vowed no one would ever know what had happened in New Orleans, the indignities she’d endured. Andrew was forcing her to choose between exposing him and exposing herself.
    The Lieutenant waited for Lisette to confirm or deny what Andrew had just said. She had no choice. “The past is past. He accosted me—in anger—last night.” She clamped her lips shut, determined to maintain dignity at any cost. She could only hope the lieutenant would see she was telling the truth.
    The lieutenant shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s your word against his, ma’am. Did anyone see the attacker strike you?” He peered at Portia expectantly.
    Aunt Portia straightened her spine. “I did not witness the actual attack, sir, but my niece was not harmed before Mr. Westmoreland arrived at our home. When he left, her face was swollen and her lips cut and bleeding. There was no other attacker.”
    “Did you see Mr. Westmoreland arrive?”
    Aunt Portia squirmed a little before answering. “No, I did not.”
    “Then another man could have been there without your knowledge.”
    “There was no one else!” Portia placed her hands on the counter separating herself