Chapter 5
HAUNTED HOUSE (MARGOT)
You’re looking at the smoothest girl ever.
Ha.
That couldn’t have gone down worse if I’d decided to make a blueberry pie and whacked him square in the face with it.
I lean against the wall of my room, hand against my chest, heart still racing.
Honestly, it might’ve been better if I had pied him. It might’ve distracted him from finding me obviously creeping on his turf.
If he wasn’t suspicious before, he sure is now.
He was also a total domineering asshole, up in my face, angry tattoo bristling, but I can’t even blame him.
The man had Army written all over before he flashed his ink and storming testosterone. A riptide of violence in his eyes, like he’ll do anything to protect his kids.
Yes, I had it coming.
I should’ve waited until they left to go into town or something before sleuthing around. Getting caught was hilariously preventable, especially when I had an inkling of how he could react.
Very badly.
And again, completely justified.
I think he saw right through my little mice story.
There was a mouse problem here in the past. That just wasn’t the reason why I went poking around.
Ugh.
Why couldn’t PopPop have just told me what I’m supposed to be looking for?
Or at least hinted where it is.
Now, I’m shooting in the dark and missing every target.
I’ve retreated to my room with the fairy lights on and the fading sunlight streaming in.
I feel ridiculous for ever thinking there might be some trapdoor or secret passage in the house.
I mean, I wouldn’t put it past Gramps to make a big show of whatever he’s hiding. I still don’t know what kind of ‘priceless memento’ he left my little cousin Cleo. But I’m glad that’s her problem, considering how stressful this house is.
I slide down the wall and crouch on the floor, my hands in my hair.
God, if he was here right now, he’d laugh at me.
“Don’t give up so easy, May. Where’s your curiosity? It doesn’t kill the cat; it gives it a reason to live.”
Seriously. I can’t count the number of times he’d say that with the same warm rolling chuckle.
Always when Hattie and I were kids, and he’d send us on his big scavenger hunts out here or sometimes at the big house in Portland.
Back then, it was fun. The stakes were lower, and the prizes were candy or books or sometimes little silver lockets and bracelets.
Tromping around the gardens out back or the lakeshore never made me feel like a sneaky weirdo either.
No wonder Kane wishes I’d fall off the earth. It doesn’t excuse his assholery, but he has good reasons.
I hate that he had to forbid me from going into the kids’ rooms. That was a sucker punch, like I’d go snooping around for no good reason.
…but isn’t that what I did?
Shit, this is so pathetic.
I stand up and go sit on the bed.
Whatever, it’s fine.
I’ll just stay in my room guessing until the Saints aren’t here, hoping whatever that crafty old man hid isn’t perishable.
The rest of my day goes by about as well as my encounter with Kane.
Ethan doesn’t know anything about the lake house or any secrets Gramps hid here, and he’s also notoriously bad at texting me back.
But that’s what happens when your older brother’s too busy being all lovey with Hattie.
I can’t be mad.
At first, it was weird, but they’re such a good couple. When the chemistry hits right, there’s no stopping it.
And now they’re both so happy it might be sickening if I didn’t love them both to death.
I only wish the chemistry wasn’t flatter than a day-old soda with my latest shoe design.
I sit down at the desk in front of my tablet with an iced matcha and try to focus, moving elements around, trying to find the magic combination.
Colors that vibe with the vision in my head.
Patterns and laces and straps that make sense, that will make people gasp with delight.
But nothing here feels cohesive, and after over an hour, it starts running together.
Everything I touch is crap today.
Flat, tired designs that wouldn’t wow anyone back in the eighties.
Nothing fresh. Nothing exciting. Nothing new.
It feels like slapping paint on a canvas and hoping you wind up with a pretty portrait by the end. But art doesn’t work that way and neither does product design.
When I close my eyes, I can see it so clearly.
Something elegant and understated.
Shoes that scream classy and chic without being ridiculously flashy or some minimalist heel horror that bites your feet until they turn purple.
Just a nice, everyday shoe that still makes a statement. Bold without being brash.
Sigh.
I flick through pictures of Pinterest boards and AI mockups, trying to find something that kickstarts my creativity.
A line, a color, an idea that grabs me by the hair.
But there’s nothing here that hasn’t been done to death.
I sooo need a new direction.
The thing is, it can’t be mundane.
It can’t be ordinary.
Fashion is a moving stream and it’s never the same twice. It has to tell a story other folks want to hear and be part of.
My stomach growls and I glance at the clock, tossing my stylus on the desk.
It’s late—hopefully so late they’ve eaten downstairs.
The sun set over an hour ago and the sky has that pale blue-grey shadow as night falls on the lake.
A rush of nostalgia punches me, and I breathe through it, gripping my tablet.
For a burning second, I remember what it was like coming here as a kid, before life got so complicated.
I remember the excitement, the way we’d feast on Gramps’ beef stew or seafood pasta before fighting over the best places in front of the fire for story time.
He’d read us the classics, Greek mythology or modern myths he just made up. The man never had a TV on in this house until we were half-grown.
I remember how carefree the woods would feel at night with chirping crickets and bellowing owls.
I remember how good my heart felt in this house, before he died and our little world shrank like a fading puddle.
I stare at my tablet and my stupid designs, wrinkling my nose.
Yeah.
The only thing as frustrating as a dream you can’t remember has to be a memory you’ll never relive. They both feel like if you just push a little harder, you’ll get there.
And yes, I know this isn’t healthy.
I need to get out of this room and my own head before I drive myself crazy.
It’s a cool evening, so I grab my light jacket from the closet and sling it over my shoulders as I head downstairs into the kitchen. My stomach growls like a wildcat.
The old house is dark and silent around me, the only noise the floorboards creaking underfoot.
Perfect.
I’m planning to grab a drink from the fridge and head into town to see what’s still open, but as I flick the light on, my attention snags on a sandwich off to the side, neatly packaged up in foil.
For the only smartass mouse I want to keep fed, the note beside it reads. Come clean with me when you’re ready, duchess.
Holy crap.
Oh, he’s good.
I want to hate him for mastering the art of contradiction and showing off.
Everything would be easier if he was a hundred percent asshole.
But this note is a whole lot of nice and I—
I don’t know how to deal with that.
So I stare at it, my heart lodged in my throat, ticking oddly.
I knew he never bought the mouse thing for a second, but I guess he isn’t too mad. He just wants my confession.
The sandwich feels like a peace offering of sorts.
One I’m tempted to accept in my sappy, hangry mood.
It’s been ages since anyone really looked out for me.
I glance out the window to the other side of the house out back, where there’s a patio and firepit, right next to the old hot tub.
The flickering light says they’ve got the fire going. The night darkens with every minute, more stars poking through the indigo-blue sky.
It’s the kind of evening Hattie and I used to love outside, buried under blankets as we talked about school and books and crushes.
Another pang of nostalgia.
I have the weirdest urge to tear up.
But that’s way too much emotion for a sandwich, and I need to eat.
So instead of blubbering, I pick it up and wrap my coat more firmly around me as I head outside.
Little Sophie sees me first. Her face lights up like Christmas morning.
The firepit blazes, and the corrupted Saint himself relaxes against the cushions of his chair nearby, his arms outstretched with a beer loosely clasped in his fingers.
The star of the show, though, is a large, fancy-looking telescope perched in the middle of the deck on a tripod.
It gleams in the firelight, and there’s a stool positioned next to it.
“Margot!” Sophie chirps, coming toward me in those oversized shoes and waving her hand. “Wanna have a look through my telescope? The skies are so amazing out here. Nothing like back home.”
There’s no way I can say no to this adorable request.
Actually… I don’t think I’ve ever looked through a telescope before. Certainly not something this big and fancy.
“She’s obsessed with the skies because nothing’s cool enough for her on the ground,” Dan tells me with the familiar superiority of a cheesy older brother, even though they’re twins. He still pretends like he’s older and wiser, and that makes me grin.
“Am not!” Sophie sticks out her tongue at him.
“Are.”
“Guys, enough,” Kane barks. “No bickering on the patio or we’re packing it in.”
“We weren’t fighting, Dad. We were debating,” Dan says.
“A debate has nuanced arguments. You just brought an argument, boy.”
Dan rolls his eyes as he sinks back in his chair, putting earbuds in as he prepares to play his little portable drum pad. Quietly this time, thank God.
“Did you know you can see Jupiter tonight?” Sophie asks. “It’s super bright. Come look.”
Kane’s eyes never waver, tracing my every movement.
Don’t feel anything.
Pretend he isn’t there.
That’s insanely hard when his emerald stare rivals the fire, and there’s something like a whisper of a smile toying around his mouth.
At least I was right—he doesn’t seem mad.
I don’t want to think about what else is running through his head as he watches me.