Gerri Ward poses as a housekeeper at Emory Estates, hoping to vindicate her grandfather who died in prison for a murder he did not commit. In the gloomy mansion, searches for the truth, and her only bright moments in when she’s helped by the estate’s groundskeeper and handyman, Rich Drake. The closer she comes to her purpose, the deeper her relationship grows with Rich and with the Lord. But can love be found in the evil surroundings? Will they let God lead them for the darkness into the light of their growing love?

The mansion stood before her like a weight pressing on her spirit.

Gerri Ward paused in the shadow of a towering oak and studied the brooding building. Like the ivy clinging to the gray stone, the dark secret had choked the life from those who lived inside. That’s what she heard from her father over the years.

Strangled by fear, Gerri pulled at the neck of her sweater. If her purpose had not driven her forward, she would never have come to Emory Estates—to a house that she prayed could clear her deceased grandfather of murder.

She stepped to the back of her sedan, opened the trunk, and pulled out two pieces of luggage. Gripping the vinyl handles, she willed her feet to climb the concrete steps, moved across the broad portico, and paused at the impressive front door. She lowered her suitcases to the drab cement and, with a trembling finger, pushed the doorbell. A deep dolorous chime echoed through the closed door.

Waiting, she pivoted her head as her gaze traveled the length of the porch. Paint, yellowed with age, pealed from the window trim, door frames, and porch roof. The building was blemished with disrepair—like a beautiful woman whose powder and adornment could no longer hide her age. But Gerri perceived more than that. A sense of misery. . .deep sorrow blanketed the surroundings as if the sun could not penetrate the encircling gloom.

A sound filtered through the wide door, and Gerri drew her attention back. She watched the brass knob turn and the door inch open.

"May I help you?" Only a shadow identified the speaker.

Gerri squinted her eyes to see through the screen door. "I’m Gerri Ward. The agency sent me over. I’m your new housekeeper."

For a lengthy moment, the silhouette did not move or speak.

Gerri held her breath, wishing he would send her away, then fearing he would. Since she’d made her plans, her emotions wavered daily. But she forged ahead, sensing that God was the director of her path.

When the door swung open, Gerri eyed the gaunt, sallow faced man who peered back at her.

"Come inside," he said.

Drawing in a deep breath of morning freshness, Gerri gripped the handles of her baggage and stepped across the threshold. The fresh air dissipated, replaced by the dank odor of decay. Her gaze swept the grand foyer. Though once elegant, the walls had grayed with years and the bright carpet had faded with use. Soap, water, and lemon polish could not dispel the sense of foreboding that crept through Gerri’s body and pressed against her heart.

Though the man hadn’t introduced himself, Gerri suspected he was the estate owner, Blayne Emory. From what her family told her, she knew him to be not more than thirty-five, but he appeared older, his countenance and posture weighted by years of misery.

Without a word, he motioned toward the stairway, then grasped the nearest of her cases from her hand and strode toward the staircase. She followed, awed at the grandeur that must have been. Just as she had read in books, the staircase was lined with portraits, —glowering faces of men and women in rigid poses. She caught her breath as one portrait looked down from above and met her gaze. Though only paint and canvas, dark evil eyes seemed to stalk her ascent. Victor Emory, Blayne’s grandfather, she felt certain. A brass plaque validated her guess as she passed.

Ahead of her, Blayne opened a door and climbed another set of stairs. No longer elegant, the narrow wooden steps, unadorned with carpet, rose between plain walls, once white, but now browned with age.

At the top, he opened another door and motioned her inside. "This is your room. It should be adequate." He dropped her suitcase on the floor.

This time Gerri remained silent while her gaze moved across the barren decor lit by a single ceiling bulb. A small bed, one ladder back chair, a pine dresser, and a library table pushed against the wall. Not a picture, rug, or lamp in sight. "This will do just fine." Though she said the words out of courtesy, she knew her response was far from the truth.

"Good." He shifted his suit jacket sleeve and looked at his watch. "I’ll be leaving in a few moments. Before you unpack, I can show you the kitchen and supplies."

"Yes, sir," Gerri said, placing her suitcase on the bed.

The man turned and headed down the stairs.

Gerri gave the room one more sweeping look and followed him to the first floor, her skin prickling in gooseflesh when she passed the sullen painting of Victor Emory.

With as few words as possible, the man gestured to the rooms as they passed, outlining her duties, and by the time they had reached the kitchen, his instructions jumbled in her head. She calmed herself and viewed the facilities—modernized, at least.

"You’ll find the pantry and refrigerator well-stocked," he said with another glance at the time. "I trust you can find your way through the house and calculate what needs to be done."

What needed to be done? Her thoughts flew to all she’d seen and all God had directed her to do. The task could take forever.