Chapter Twenty-Two
It didn’t make sense. Except in all the ways it did. When Maggie stopped thinking about it as real life and started thinking
of it like a story, it felt like the most obvious thing in the world. But the fact remained that Eleanor was an eighty-one-year-old
woman with a bad leg and it was freezing outside. She could be lost or hurt or dying, and still Maggie couldn’t bring herself
to panic.
With only two exceptions, Maggie had always been cool in a crisis and calm under pressure. She never overcorrected the wheel
or shouted fire or fainted at the sight of blood, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise ten minutes later as she stood in the
library with the others, trying to hear herself think over the sound of eight people talking at the same time.
“What do you know about it, Your Grace?” Rupert shouted at his brother-in-law.
“Oh, I have someplace you can shove your sweater, Kitty!” snapped the duchess.
“Say, when do you think they’ll serve lunch?” (The lawyer.)
“Perhaps someone should call the police?” (The doctor.)
“I remember one time when I was consulting with Scotland Yard. Grizzly stuff. Blood everywhere.” (Sir Jasper.)
“You think Aunt Eleanor is dead?” (Cece.)
A whistling sound pierced the air, sudden and quick, and the room went instantly silent. Ethan was always taller and stronger
and more attractive than the vast majority of the world’s population, but in that moment, he wasn’t just the kind of person
with their own gravity. He was someone who could control tides.
And he was all out of patience.
“Hi. Hello. Welcome back. Just... throwing this out there... But maybe we should look for Eleanor.” It seemed like a perfectly logical next step but the others were staring at him like he’d just suggested they
only have one course for dinner.
“James!” Ethan called.
“Yes, sir.” James was right behind Ethan, and he jumped.
“Oh! Didn’t see you there. How many rooms are there in the mansion?”
“A lot, sir.” James’s diction was precise, even if his answer was not, and Ethan gave a determined nod.
“ A lot ,” he repeated. “So let’s split up and search the house and—”
A whimper cut him off. Kitty was sitting in the corner, yarn and a half-finished something in her lap, but the knitting needles
lay forgotten as she dabbed at her wet cheeks. Ethan’s face fell.
“Ah, Kitty, it’s okay,” he said softly. “We’ll find her.”
Kitty wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I’m sorry. It’s just the baby didn’t sleep and now Aunt Eleanor is missing and...”
Her face screwed up. Her nose turned red. And the tears were just right there —they were getting ready to fall again. “No one is wearing their sweaters!”
“Uh... okay.” Ethan straightened and turned back to the group. “Let’s split up. Meet back here in an hour and—”
Kitty whimpered again and Maggie watched Ethan crumble. Then straighten.
“But first...”
Maggie didn’t wait around to find out.
The hall was silent and empty as Maggie made her way back to the broken door near the top of the stairs.
It felt like she was doing something naughty as she stood on the threshold of Eleanor’s office. She’d already been there,
sure. But it was different, standing alone among the quiet shelves and splintered wood. The now-cold tea tray and old computer.
The latched window and snow-covered sill outside.
“Heads up!” Ethan called from the doorway, and Maggie barely had time to turn before a soft, heavy weight landed on top of
her head.
“Hey.” She pulled it off and looked down at red yarn and fuzzy white birds.
“That’s for you. We’re turtledoves.” He gestured to the sweater that covered his broad chest. “We match.” He wriggled his
eyebrows again, but Maggie just tossed the sweater on a chair and went back to the cold glass.
“This window is locked, and it swings out. The snow is undisturbed, so we know it hasn’t been opened.”
“One: I know,” Ethan said calmly. “And two: Are we really entertaining the theory that an eighty-one-year-old woman jumped
or flew or rappelled down the side of the building? During a blizzard?”
“I don’t have a theory yet,” Maggie shot back. “You shouldn’t make theories until you have all the facts. Which you would
know if you were a real mystery writer and not a...”
“Leather Jacket Guy?” he filled in as he leaned against the busted door and crossed his arms, biceps bulging beneath the yarn.
“Oh, but now I’m an awesome sweater guy. Go ahead. Put yours on. Let’s be twinsies.”
Maggie’s heart was beating faster than usual, probably because Eleanor was missing and Ethan was watching her and the result
was a weird cocktail of adrenaline that hit her bloodstream like jet fuel. She wanted him to leave. Or tease. Or fight. She
wanted him to do anything but stand there, watching her like she was the ultimate mystery and it was his job to solve her.
“You know, when I said we should look for Eleanor, I thought we might skip the one room we know she’s not in.” Ethan pushed
off the doorframe and prowled closer.
“And I thought we might focus on the last place she was seen.” They were chest-to-chest again, and Maggie felt suddenly hot
inside the chilly room.
“Wait. Was she seen here?” Ethan challenged and Maggie thought back to the night before.
“Fine. The last place she was”—they both turned to the phonograph in the corner—“heard...”
But that wasn’t true either. They didn’t hear Eleanor’s voice, just the music that had blasted through the doors, drowning
out the sounds of Cece’s shouting.
Ethan gave a shrug like here goes nothing , then picked up the needle and placed it on the record and soon the tune of “La Vie en Rose” filled the air. It sounded like
Paris and cobblestone streets and warm, fresh bread and Maggie’s stomach growled because she hadn’t eaten breakfast.
“What I don’t get is why you’re not freaking out right now?” He tilted his head, eyes sharp. This wasn’t Flirty Ethan or Charming Ethan or the Ethan who had
probably been best man at two dozen different weddings. This was the Ethan who saw things—who saw her —and Maggie turned away, wishing she could go back to the days when he didn’t even know her name.
“Maybe I’ll freak out later. Maybe—” And then she realized what was wrong about that picture—about that scene and that moment
and that place. “It wasn’t this song.”
“What?” Ethan asked, obviously confused. But there was something inside of Maggie, something moving and humming and coming
to life. It was just right there. She just had to reach out and...
“It wasn’t this song!” she said again, stronger now, but Ethan wasn’t following.
“I don’t—”
“Last night! When she put the record on, it wasn’t this song!”
He nodded like okay but you’re missing the point . “So she played more than one record. Why does it matter?”
Oh, she couldn’t believe him. She was going to strangle him with his own sweater! How could anyone—anyone—sleep under Eleanor
Ashley’s roof and not know—
“It matters because, if you read Eleanor Ashley, you would know that this is the song that was playing when...”
And then the pieces started falling into place. Slowly. Maggie wasn’t standing in Eleanor’s office, she was in Deborah’s,
hearing her editor say, Something is coming next year. Very big. Very hush-hush. And I think you’re the person for the job.
She was shivering in the cold wind, watching Eleanor wink and tell them, I like a twist .
I’m probably wrong , Maggie told herself. It had been so long since she’d been right. She could almost hear Colin’s voice in her head, telling
her that she was seeing things, hearing things, manufacturing mysteries out of thin air. But that didn’t change the fact that
Eleanor was missing. Eleanor was gone. And...
“Well...” Ethan prompted.
If she was right, then...
“It’s nothing,” Maggie said quickly. “You win.”
“Wait. I win? ” He sounded like that was the craziest part of their very crazy morning.
“Yeah. Let’s split up. Search. I’ll see you in an hour.”
And then she pushed past his big, dumb body in his big, dumb sweater and set out to prove herself wrong. Trying to silence
the little part of herself that was screaming she was totally right.