Chapter 21 Home Alone （Margot）
HOME ALONE (MARGOT)
In front of Kane and the kids, it was easy to look fearless and chill.
That’s what you do when you’re a mature adult who gets how important it is to look brave for everybody else.
But alone?
I’m a plucked chicken.
Being on my own doesn’t usually bother me, but tonight, it’s terrifying.
All the doors and windows are locked, of course, but I still patrol the house, triple-checking to make sure they’re holding up and haven’t mysteriously moved.
Thankfully, Holden did a good job when he’d stop in to check the place, tightening the locks and checking window seals.
“Right down to the last hinge, Miss Blackthorn,” he tells me now over the phone.
Yes, you know it’s bad when I’ve called up Gramps’ ice-cold former bodyguard for company. I used a made-up loose door as an excuse.
“Anything you need checked again? Say the word, and I can be there this week. I’d rather earn my keep, seeing how the old man was so generous to keep me paid.” His voice is so low—almost scorched—I think he could give Kane competition in the smolder department.
“Holden, no way. What did Ethan tell you last time?” I smile, knowing he’s the only one who ever got away with calling PopPop ‘old man.’
“Relax.” He spits it like it’s a cursed word.
“Uh-huh. So you should listen. It’s totally gorgeous this fall, why don’t you take your daughter out to an orchard or something? Perfect bonding weather, even for a guy who sleeps in his suit.”
“I do not.” He snorts.
“Say, while I’ve got you, though, you’re positive he never mentioned anything weird here? Like, no secret storm shelters, no stained glass? No weird paintings or sculptures with baby shoes?”
“Miss Blackthorn, no. You’re being evasive. I can’t help you if we’re playing this game. When did you decide you were done being the easy one?”
“Hey, man, I’m messing with you. If I need your help, I’ll ask.” I smile and sigh. “But isn’t this better than getting in the middle of Ethan’s fake engagement? Or whatever Gramps left for Cleo? I bet that’ll be fun.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Don’t make me regret choosing you over your reckless cousin and your punk-ass brother,” he snarls. I swallow a laugh, remembering how much trouble they used to cause when we’d stay. “However, come to think of it, you mentioned baby shoes. There was one time.”
“Yeah?” I wait, holding my breath.
“It was years ago, back when you were kids. I walked into Mr. Blackthorn’s library in Portland with a tray of black tea we’d occasionally share and found him distraught. He had this little mangled clay object, and he was muttering to himself, clearly frustrated.”
My heart flips.
“Whoa. What was he doing?”
I hear him drumming his fingers for a second before he answers. “If memory serves, he was sketching it. There was a small book in front of him with drawings, what looked like the little statue from several angles. It was a broken pair of small shoes.”
I’m nervous now, and it has nothing to do with the situation here.
“Did he… did he explain what it was all about? Anything to do with my grandmother?” I ask carefully.
“He had his secrets, and this was one more. I never asked, not directly, but he saw the look on my face. And he pulled out a small bottle of whiskey he kept in his drawer and spiked our tea. ‘Something to take the edge off being frozen,’ he said.” Holden pauses, his voice losing its edge.
“It was summer. I noticed the phone was slightly lopsided in its cradle—like he’d slammed it down—so I fixed it.
Probably another attempt to contact your mother. ”
“Oh.”
My heart dives like an elevator. It wouldn’t be the first time Mom hung up on him. But even though I knew it happened, hearing what it was like, from his side—
My throat hurts, thick and raw.
A little girl squeals in the background then, and I hear Holden mutter a few stern words to her.
“Sorry. Regrettably, Miss Blackthorn, that’s all I can remember.”
“No, that’s super helpful. Thanks, Holden. I’ll let you go be a dad. If anything else comes up, I’ll give you a shout.”
I end the call and check my notifications before I start crying over family drama I’ll never fix.
But what’s up with those little shoes? And what’s waiting for me if I do get that glass door open?
The security feed from each camera still shows nothing out of the ordinary.
Small comfort.
To pass the time, which runs slower than molasses, I start cleaning the entire house from top to bottom. It’s kind of therapeutic since cleaning has always been a choice.
Growing up, we had hired help who came in every day, keeping the family properties sparkling.
I didn’t start doing my own deep cleanings until after college, even when I had my own people.
There’s a ritual feel to doing laundry, folding clothes, putting the dishes back in place, and giving the kitchen a good wipe-down.
The movement helps quiet my chattery brain.
After an hour of light stuff, I decide to go all-in, scrubbing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees with a tile cleaner I found under the sink.
The rubber gloves feel cold against my fingers. They keep me from obsessively checking my phone more often than every five or ten minutes.
Still nothing.
At the hour half mark, I text Kane to let him know I’m alive, then dive right back into scrubbing.
Once the floor rivals a mirror, I head into the living room and start wiping down the trim boards, cleaning the windows, and spraying a little fabric cleaner on the furniture.
That pulls up a surprising amount of filth.
Kids are precious and dirty.
I go from room to room, hunting cobwebby corners and spritzing fresh lemon.
Then there’s a deafening snap!
A twig.
I hope.
Even though I’m on the second floor, I race over to look out the bedroom window.
Predictably, there’s nothing.
Just a bitter fall wind tossing the trees around like bones. Branches will easily come off in that wind, which must peak around thirty-mile-per-hour bursts.
God, I’m a mess.
With a shameful sigh, I abandon my last project—sweeping under the bed—and pace through the house one more time.
Seriously, can we keep it together? Just for a little while longer.
I wonder.
It’s a struggle not to march through every room with a knife in hand. I’m ninety percent sure I couldn’t stab an intruder if I had to, but let’s pretend I could.
I might put on a brave face and say all the right things, but when it comes down to it, violence isn’t my thing.
“Settle down. We’re halfway there and he won’t be gone that long,” I mutter.
It definitely sucks when a girl has to talk herself down from turning into Courage the Cowardly Dog. Watching that cartoon as a kid was way more fun than imagining ghostly mummies and psycho barbers lurking outside in this wind.
I swallow thickly, hating how Kane would laugh if he could see me now.
Another look at the app.
No movement. No people. No cause for concern.
So I lean against the wall, exhaling roughly in the hallway.
I shouldn’t have asked Holden about the past when I could’ve saved it for another day.
But how would PopPop handle this?
Hard to say, but he’d probably not give a crap about some weirdo threatening him. And not just because he had a brawler like Holden around when he got older.
With his money and influence, I’m realizing he must’ve had enemies. Maybe even people who would threaten his life.
I mean, the Babins literally committed arson on this property, and he still came back. He brought us here as kids.
Was that a giant fuck you to anyone who messed with him?
Time to channel a little Leonidas Blackthorn and stop slinking around like a scolded cat.
I head downstairs, find the flashlight in the kitchen drawer, and make sure it turns on.
Yes.
The bright light floods the dimly lit halls.
Just a quick look outside to make sure nothing’s blown loose. It can’t hurt for peace of mind.
I nod to myself as I step outside and—
Holy crap!
The wind slaps my face, whipping my hair into my eyes. I struggle to brush it back with my fingers so I can see straight.
The lake sounds rough tonight, slapping the shore. A blanket of clouds drift in like stampeding elephants.
Ugh.
Hopefully their flight isn’t delayed.
Of course, the kids’ safety comes first, but it would really suck if they get tied up at the airport waiting half the night while I’m stuck here alone.
For now, let’s not think about it.
Besides, for all I know, the storm is localized and might just graze Bar Harbor.
I ignore the pulsing anxiety as I walk down to the site of the burned gazebo and the old storm shelter before the rain starts pounding.
Since it’s been opened before, I’m able to yank the doors wide enough to stare down into the darkness.
They creak like a coffin.
Silly.
It’s only scarier now because I’m here alone.
But I have my phone.
I might as well take a quick look.
With one hand braced against the wall, I descend the steps one at a time.
They’re steep, but sturdy, and soon I’m at the bottom without breaking my neck.
The same stale scent I noticed before rubs my lungs and I try not to cough. This place needs to be left open one day to air out.
I swing the light around, taking in the old clay pottery figures of my grandparents, half-finished, and all those little shoes on the table.
Why did he leave them like this?
Did Gramps ever come down here much after she died? After the fire?
If he didn’t, that would explain the staleness, I guess.
I swear there’s a hint of scorched smoke, but it might be my imagination.
Turning the corner to the back wall, behind the stairs, I shine the flashlight on the stained glass.
It’s so pretty. The colors glint vividly in the light.
As I admire it, I notice something behind the glass, just a dull blurry shadow.
There must be something inside that cabinet.
I can’t tell what it is when I get closer, pointing the beam at the tinted window.
Another painting, maybe? A book? With a small round rock on top of it?