Chapter Forty-Five
Maggie
By the time they made it back through the passageway and into the main part of the house, Maggie was able to feel her fingers
again, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t numb.
“Well, what happened to the two of you?” Cece exclaimed as they passed the library and headed toward the stairs. Maggie didn’t
know if she was talking about the time that they’d been missing or the fact that they were covered with dust and their hair
was full of cobwebs. Frankly, Maggie didn’t care.
“When did the greenhouse burn?” Maggie blurted and Cece took a step back because, well, Maggie did slightly resemble a ghost
or maybe a serial killer. Or the ghost of a serial killer. Or all of the above. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except—
“Cece! When was the fire in the greenhouse?”
“I don’t know,” Cece exclaimed, like How am I supposed to keep track of these things? “Maybe three weeks ago? A month? Something like that. It wasn’t much of a fire. We’d just had a sprinkler installed, and
it put it out. Why?”
Maggie felt Ethan shifting. Turning. And she knew the moment when he saw the staircase, with its mismatched pieces of wood,
old and new, dark and light.
“What about that?” Nothing about Ethan sounded flirty anymore. “What happened on the stairs?”
“Eleanor fell.” Cece looked around, confused.
“ Why did she fall?” Maggie demanded and Cece spun on her. She didn’t like it coming from both sides.
“I... I told you. The runner came loose.” She was flustered and frantic and fumbling. “And the... the boards were old.
They were old and the railing wobbled, and... she fell.”
Suddenly, the whole world felt unsteady—like the deck of a ship in rough seas, and Maggie wasn’t just worried she’d fall down.
She was terrified she might go overboard, and in that moment, she wasn’t just looking at Ethan. She felt tethered to him.
And he looked back like he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her—like the ocean was going to have to go through him first.
Cece threw out her arms. “Why are y’all asking about this?”
There were a dozen different answers to that question. Because not everything is a coincidence. Because, sometimes, accidents don’t just happen. Because Eleanor was rich and powerful
but also frail and alone. Because...
Ethan shook his head, slowly—a single time—and Maggie blinked and said, “No reason.”
“Why do people go to kitchens when the shit hits the fan?” Maggie asked as she sat at the big island and rested her arms on
the cool marble of the counter. “You’d think they’d want to keep the shit as far away from the kitchen as possible, but no...
Trauma equals kitchen.”
All she had to do was look around to remember why, though. The room was large and bright and it smelled like lemons and freshly
made bread. And also heaven. Yes. That’s exactly what Maggie had always imagined heaven would smell like.
But as she shifted on her barstool, she felt Ethan’s hand at the small of her back, a sure, steady weight, and she wanted
to lean against it. She didn’t think she’d miss the dark, narrow passageway and even darker—even narrower—tunnel, but there
she was, bracing against the glare of a world that was suddenly way too bright.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You mean besides the fact that, evidently”—she looked around, then dropped her voice—“someone has been trying to kill Eleanor
for weeks now?” She wanted to rest her head on her arms and go to sleep but sleeping probably wasn’t a great idea, what with
all the not-quite murder.
“You’re squinting.”
“My head hurts. It’s nothing.” Maggie knew for a fact that her headaches were nothing because Colin had spent the better part
of ten years telling her so. “It could be a migraine or tension or... You know? I don’t think I’ve actually eaten...”
She trailed off as a sandwich slid in front of her. “And I haven’t had any...” A coffee joined it. “Caffeine. Thanks. I’ll
just get...” Two sugars and the milk appeared and for a moment Maggie just sat there, staring.
“How did you...” She started, but Ethan was turned away, rummaging through the massive refrigerator. “Ethan?”
She waited for the inevitable joke or flirty whisper. She would have given anything for a wink. But Ethan wasn’t even looking
at her. He was staring into that fridge as if Eleanor might be hiding in the cheese drawer.
“Ethan, how did you—”
“I pay attention.”
He came out with an apple and took a crisp, quick bite and Maggie felt instantly silly. Of course he pays attention , she told herself. He was a professional attention-payer. The Secret Service probably had classes and courses and tests.
He could probably close his eyes and name fifty things in that room at that moment, but it felt different somehow, in the
silence and the stillness, after the last few days. He felt different. Like maybe, all this time, he’d been paying attention to her .
So Maggie cupped the coffee in her hands and breathed in the hot, sweet scent, but nothing felt right. Nothing tasted right.
Nothing would ever be right because—
“Someone has tried to kill Eleanor three times now. Right? Is my math right?”
Ethan ticked them off on his fingers. “Burned greenhouse, rigged stairs, poisoned tea tray. Yeah. That sounds— No. Four. I
forgot about the shooting.”
“Of course.” Maggie nodded slowly, like how silly of me . “I’d hate to forget about the shooting.”
“That would be a pity.”
He grabbed half the sandwich and took a bite and she didn’t even bother to slap his hand away.
His arm pressed against hers as he leaned against the counter, a warm and steady weight, reminding her she wasn’t alone. It
was maybe the most perilous situation of her life, but Maggie wasn’t afraid, and she didn’t let herself think about how—without
the man beside her—she would have been terrified.
She could only smile down into her cup and say, “You know how I take my coffee.” She didn’t have a clue about anything else,
but that was evidence of something.
Ethan gave a slow nod, a silent sigh. “I know how you take your coffee.”
“Since when?”
“We’ve been in a dozen greenrooms together, you know? I’ve seen you drink coffee.”
“Which greenroom?” she asked again.
A soft sigh. A silent curse. And then— “Tucson.”
Maggie didn’t know who moved first. It was like the rotation of the earth, something you never felt but was always there.
And then her face was in his hands and her hands were in his hair and Maggie might have flown right off that stool—off the
globe—if he hadn’t stepped between her legs and pulled her tight against him.
“Maggie.”
Her name was a whisper. He was just right there, so close. So—
“I don’t give a damn where they are!” There was shouting in the hall, curses flying like the snow outside. “Everyone in the
library! Now!” Dobson’s big voice boomed.
Ethan’s forehead fell against hers and he closed his eyes as the kitchen door swung open and James cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, but I believe Inspector Dobson would like a word.”