Chapter Thirty-six
Maggie pulled into the driveway just as the mailman, Tom Jenkins, was stepping out of his truck, a bundle of envelopes in hand.
He was a familiar sight, his uniform slightly rumpled, the logo on his cap faded from years of service.
He was one of the good ones—always had time for a quick chat, always knew what was going on around town.
“Morning, Tom,” Maggie called, stepping out of her car.
Tom looked up and grinned. “Morning, Maggie. Just about to drop this off for you.”
Maggie took the stack of mail and tilted her head. “How’s your mother? I heard she had a fall.”
Tom let out a sigh but nodded. “She’s resting, on the mend. Stubborn as ever. You know how it is.”
Maggie chuckled. “Oh, yes. Stubbornness runs deep in some families.”
Tom smirked. “Speaking of family—my oldest got into Bowdoin.”
Maggie beamed. “No! That’s wonderful news, Tom! I always knew that boy would make something of himself.”
Tom puffed up with pride. “Yeah, I’m pretty proud. Gonna have a little celebration this weekend at my parents’ in Pittsfield, nothing fancy.”
Maggie squeezed his arm. “You should be proud. Give my congratulations to Luke and the rest of your family.”
Tom tipped his cap. “Will do. And tell your crew to behave themselves.”
Maggie snorted. “I can’t make any promises.”
Maggie had always wondered why Tom and his wife had divorced soon after their youngest son Tucker was born. She didn’t want to pry, but she never understood it. Tom was so handsome and charming, not to mention a real looker.
Tom laughed, climbed back into his truck, and drove off.
As Maggie walked toward the house, Flounder, her ever-loyal Golden Retriever, came bounding down the hill, tail wagging furiously.
“All right, all right, I’m home,” she said, ruffling his fur. “No need to act like I’ve been gone for weeks.”
She shuffled through the mail—a few flyers, a couple of stray bills she hadn’t switched over to paperless yet, nothing of real interest—until she reached a white envelope.
The handwriting was childlike, scrawled and uneven, barely legible. No return address. Postmarked Halibut Cove.
Maggie’s brows knit together.
She carried the stack inside, fed Flounder, and then sat at the kitchen table, staring at the odd envelope.
Something about it prickled the back of her neck.
She opened it carefully and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
Her stomach turned to ice.
The message was computer-generated, the letters mimicking an old ransom note, as if they had been cut from a magazine but clearly printed from a modern program.
Maggie Holbrook,
You’re asking too many questions.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
Your meddling is dangerous.
Not just for you, but for your family.
Maggie’s grip on the paper tightened.
Her heart pounded, but not with fear—no, this was something else.
Rage.
Threaten her? Fine.
Threaten her family?
That was a whole different story.
She snatched her phone off the table and sent out a group text.
Holbrooks. Family meeting. ASAP.
Fifteen minutes later, everyone was gathered in the Holbrook living room.
Jill stood with her arms crossed, her expression tight with frustration.
Audrey sat forward on the couch, brow furrowed in concern.
Cord and Sandy leaned against the mantle, tense and alert.
Oliver, arms crossed, let out a slow breath. “All right, what’s this about?”
Maggie held up the ransom-style note.
Jill’s face darkened. She grabbed the letter and scanned it, her jaw clenching as she read.
“This is insane,” she muttered. “Mom, this is a direct threat. You need to back off.”
Maggie snorted. “Not happening.”
Jill threw her head back in frustration. “Of course not.”
Audrey leaned forward. “Who the hell sent this?”
Maggie shook her head. “No clue. No return address, just postmarked from Halibut Cove.”
Cord let out a low whistle. “So we’re dealing with a coward.”
Sandy scowled. “Or a dangerous idiot.”
Jill took a measured breath, trying to reel in her irritation. “Mom, I mean it. You need to stop. Whoever this is, they’re serious.”
Maggie narrowed her eyes. “I’m not stopping, Jill. Not when I know Bradley is behind this.”
Jill threw up her hands. “For God’s sake, Mom! You don’t know that. You suspect it. And suspicion isn’t enough!”
Audrey crossed her arms. “He’s up to something. First, we know his father’s deal with Grandpa and the others fell apart. Then, he’s sniffing around town with Fred Grindle, a known developer. Who’s to say he doesn’t have his own plan for that disputed land?”
Sandy nodded. “And what about Chips Hogan and Griffin Mead? Both poisoned. Both dead. That can’t be a coincidence.”
Jill sighed. “It’s all circumstantial. You don’t have one piece of hard evidence that ties him to either of their deaths.”
Maggie crossed her arms. “Then we’ll find it.”
Jill groaned. “No, Mom. You won’t. I will. Because I’m the police chief, remember?”
Oliver, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat. “I have to agree with Jill on this one. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Without proof, we’re just speculating.”
Maggie shot him a look. “You doubt me?”
Oliver exhaled slowly. “No, I don’t doubt you, Mom. But Jill has a point.”
Sandy let out a short laugh. “You realize that most of the useful information we have is because of Audrey and Maggie, right? You’d have zilch if they hadn’t taken that little field trip to New Hampshire.”
Jill shot Sandy a warning glare. “Not helping.”
Cord pushed away from the mantle. “Jill, I get that this is your job. But let’s be clear—nobody threatens our family and gets away with it.”
Jill shook her head. “For the love of—Cord, I know that! You don’t think I’m taking this seriously?”
Audrey spoke up. “Then do something about it.”
Jill turned to her. “I will. Legally. Which means I need actual evidence, not wild theories.”
Maggie sat back, watching the tension unfold, the protective instincts in every single one of her children and granddaughter kicking in.
Jill, the cop.
Oliver, the lawyer.
Cord, the bruiser.
Sandy, the sharp-tongued realist.
And Audrey, her little firecracker, always digging.
Jill let out a frustrated breath. “Mom, just—For once in your life, I beg you, listen to me.”
Maggie tilted her head, considering.
Then she smiled.
“Absolutely not.”
Jill let out a groan and dropped into the nearest chair, rubbing her temples.
“Of course not,” she muttered.
Cord smirked. “She’s not wrong, you know.”
Jill pointed a stern finger at him. “Don’t start.”
Cord shrugged. “Too late.”
Jill looked around the room and realized, with a sinking feeling, that this wasn’t going away.
Her mother, her brothers, her daughter—all too damn stubborn.
“Fine,” she said begrudgingly. “You want to keep at this? Knock yourselves out. But don’t get in my way. And for God’s sake, don’t do anything stupid.”
Maggie smiled sweetly. “Define ‘stupid.’”
Jill let out a sharp breath and stood. “I hate this family.”
Cord smirked. “No, you don’t.”
Jill threw him a look. “Right now, I really do.”
As Jill grabbed her keys and headed out the door, Maggie turned to her sons and granddaughter.
“Well,” she said, tapping the ransom note against her palm, “it looks like we have a puzzle to solve.”
Cord cracked his knuckles. “Damn right we do. And if I have to bust a few heads to get to the truth, so be it.”
“I draw the line at violence, Cord. This is the twenty-first century, not the old west,” Maggie said sharply.
“Sorry, Ma, you’re right. As always.”
She could tell he was just appeasing her.
Cord was mad as hell about the warning note.
He was itching for revenge.
And justice.
She just hoped his more sensible younger brother, Sandy, would be able to keep him in line and out of trouble.