Chapter Twenty-Four
“I need to make a phone call.”
“Excuse me?” James sounded confused.
“I need to call New York. Now. Can I use your phone, please? I can pay for the long-distance charges, and I wouldn’t even
ask except... I need to call New York. It’s important.”
This thing—if she was right—was the kind of thing that would change every thing. And Maggie needed to know. Not if she was right. No. She needed to know if it was okay to hope because Maggie had learned
a long time ago that hope was the most dangerous emotion. It had been ripped from her and used against her. It had torn her
to shreds a dozen times and she wasn’t going to do that to herself if she could help it. She wouldn’t survive it.
But if she was right...
“I need to call New York,” she said again.
“The phones are down, miss. I presume the storm...”
Of course. The storm. Maggie was safe and warm inside those old stone walls, but, outside, the sky was angry. Snow swirled
and the windows rattled. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except—
“James, I really need to call New York. Is there wi-fi? I can just FaceTime—”
“I’m afraid our internet is all satellite-based and with...” James motioned to the swirling white beyond the windows.
“The storm,” Maggie filled in, hope and dread doing war inside her. “Where can I go to get a cell signal? Is there, like,
a lookout point? Maybe a larger-than-average hill?”
“Ma’am, I cannot recommend leaving the house. The roads are impassable.”
She saw it then—something in his eyes. He wasn’t lying, but he didn’t want her to know the whole truth either. “James...
is there a place inside the house?”
James grimaced and looked guilty, like they were going to revoke his butler license for insufficient poker face. He gave a
deep sigh but admitted, “One can occasionally get a signal in the old tower at the top of the east wing, but—”
“Thank you!”
“I do not suggest—”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“But, ma’am, that part of the manor has not been properly maintained!”
“I’ll be careful!” Maggie called but she never, ever looked back.
Ten minutes later, Maggie finally did have a signal. One tiny, precious bar, and as she paced at the top of the curving staircase that seemed straight out of a
medieval romance, she didn’t even feel the frigid wind that blew through the cracks in the stones and narrow, glassless windows.
Snow gathered on the wooden floors that creaked beneath her feet and looked like they might collapse at any moment, but she
couldn’t bring herself to care as she brought the phone to her ear and waited.
“This is Deborah. Please leave a message. Unless this is Maggie Chase, then go enjoy your holiday, Maggie, and call me after
the first of the year. I’m serious.”
The floors creaked again. The phone beeped. And Maggie morphed into a veritable avalanche of words.
“Deborah, it’s me. Maggie. Margaret. Chase. The one in your message. I... Uh, quick question. Is it possible that Eleanor
Ashley is retiring and this whole trip is one big test to choose a writer to take over her ongoing series? Is it a test? Because,
oh yeah, I’m here with Eleanor’s family and two other writers and that doesn’t make any sense—the writers, not the family.
And then Eleanor disappeared out of a locked room last night and there are these clues—or at least I think they’re clues and the whole thing feels very much like a...”
Three quick beeps told Maggie she’d lost the signal. Her tiny, precious bar was gone and Maggie was alone with her thoughts
and the cold wind slicing through the arrowslits, stinging her face with icy pellets. The floors creaked again, but this time
Maggie wasn’t even moving. So either the floor was about to cave in or—
She glanced down the spiral stairs and that was when she saw him. “Ethan?”
“Whatcha doing, Margaret Abigail?”
“Looking for Eleanor.” The lie practically rolled off Maggie’s tongue. She even managed to add a little isn’t it obvious lilt that she was especially proud of. “Why?” She sounded so innocent. So confused. “What are you doing?”
“Well, when a lady goes into a condemned tower—”
“I highly doubt this is condemned —”
“—all alone, a gentleman—”
“Are you supposed to be the gentleman in this scenario? Because I don’t know if I’d go with gentleman .” She made quote marks with her hands.
“—follows to make sure she doesn’t fall and bust open her pretty little head.”
“Awww. You think my head is pretty?” She gave him her best wide-eyed ingenue look. “You big softie.”
“Maggie—”
“Should we go check on the others?”
“Margaret—”
“I’m going to go check on the others.”